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Postcards

Your stamp is a greenish-blue bruise

from France, your home.

The letters have smeared--

blurring and bleeding into one another

kaleidoscopic.

I’ve waited days for your message

signed off with love and the smell

of smoke and pints, whispers of

your somber sadness, soft voice.

Next card is Brussels --

on your way home, and soon

I’ll send one from Carolina.

Trace my fingers over the last L in

All my love

sandwiched in between the rest

hoping you can feel through all these

fragmented bits of moments in time where

my world is happening here without you.


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