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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