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Letter No.1

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Letter No.1 |

My dear Sven,

it has been less than three days since we had to say goodbye to each other and yet I can’t wait any longer. I had to write to you. Three weeks' time I had to get to know you, and I curse myself for the timidity that did not permit me anything beyond watching you from afar for the first few days. When you spoke to me during the night hike, I acted as if I had never even noticed you, but the truth is that you had taken me prisoner at first sight. I can still see it before me, as if I was even now standing there in the parking lot, when this indescribably beautiful boy got off the bus, his light blond hair ruffled by the gentle breeze and turned into a golden wreath by the afternoon sun… only a few strands were stuck to the forehead, wet with sweat. Almost as if they were a sign that this was a being of flesh and blood and not a vision created by a lonesome spirit.

For days I could not take my eyes off you. I still can’t believe that you didn’t notice. I would never have dared to talk to you, and yet I couldn’t help but try to be near you whenever I could. Had you not spoken to me, that would probably have been it. Instead of writing to you, I would be sitting here, trying to draw that beautiful face that has been etched into my dreams. And I would tear apart one sheet after another, despairing at the fact that my skill can’t match that of your creation.

But you spoke to me. You smiled at me, there under the starry night skies, your face lit by the flickering flame… and still your eyes shone brighter than all our torches combined. I don’t know if you can imagine it, but the summer days we spent at the camp were the most wonderful I’ve ever had. Possibly the most wonderful I will ever have.

But even if every moment I spent near you will always be a cherished memory, it is the last evening that won’t let me rest, that forces my words onto paper now. I always thought a kiss couldn’t be that special. I was convinced that people were exaggerating a bit when they talked of wobbly knees, of fireworks of emotion and overwhelming symphonies of exuberant joy… How wrong I was…

Sven, I know that it probably wasn’t the same experience for you, but I had to get it off my chest. Now I have at least written it down and I hope you don’t think ill of me. If it was no more than a fleeting summer dream for you, say but one word and I will be silent. But if you feel like I do… I don’t even want to write it down.

I hope I haven’t gone too far.



© Severin Buchenau 2022-05-21


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