Waiting for Postcards

There’s so much wide open space between us, a million telephone poles, but only one uninterrupted wire. I miss your fingers and how you like to share my mitten so you can hold my hand, they stretch, the threads break. I buy new ones for you to rip apart. It’s worth it.

I think about all the time we spent clothed when we should have been naked. The days when we didn’t get anything done, except each other. How you say I’m too loud, sometimes.

Hear me.

Your days are half over when mine are just beginning and I leave cups around the apartment with tea half-drunk and they don’t disappear anymore. It’s an exercise but I don’t know what I’m learning.

The days countdown and I carry unfinished ones in my pockets. I cross out the wrong answers. I lie to my journal even when I’m telling the truth and we are all just different faces of deceit. This one’s smiling.

I wish I had more sense for you but rational thought is too expensive on one income.

I almost stole a bag of oranges but instead I paid and when I got home I cut them the way your momma taught me.

Unseasonably juicy. Sticky fingered. Waiting for a postcard.


7 thoughts on “Waiting for Postcards”

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