In the corner of Main Street's forgotten café,
Where neon lights flicker without aim or grace,
Sits an old woman with fingers that dance,
A melody hidden, a quiet romance.

She types on her machine, a relic of yore,
Its keys worn smooth by years of more.
Letters rise like smoke from chimneys at dawn,
Forming thoughts in typeface so drawn.

"I was young," she whispers to the air,
"When everyone wrote love and war out there.
Now they tweet and chat with their thumbs aglow,
But I'm stuck here, typing slow."

The café is empty except for her hum,
A rhythm that's been going on since it begun.
"Once upon a time," she muses aloud,
"The world was quieter, more grounded, proud."

In the back room, old papers pile high,
Each one a story of yesterday's sighs.
"There used to be love letters under doors,"
She says with a smile and some unseen scars.

"But now, young ones seek their thrill elsewhere,
On screens that glow like the moon in rare air."
She shakes her head at how fast it all changed,
A century slipped by without being unspanged.

Yet she keeps typing out tales of old times,
Holding back memories from its moldy chimes.
"Here," she says, handing over a sheet,
"Just this one story, if you please."

It tells of love that was written in ink,
Of secrets exchanged and dreams on brink.
"And once upon a time," she softly adds,
"We believed letters could last like the gods."

Outside, through the window, the world moves fast,
But here in her café, she holds it past.
A guardian of words, from an age so wise,
She types away as if time still flies.

"Maybe one day," she thinks to herself,
"Some young girl will find this story and swelf."
For though the world has changed beyond recall,
Some things remain, kept safe by the last typist in all.

[0xFFL1N3]
"stop performing. start meaning it."
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