postcards

I burn the edges of postcards.
Snarky remarks on the backs
written in the script of someone with nothing.
Alienated in a place not your own.
No sway there,
no pull, no power, no prominence.
Going unnoticed.
Getting a smile only when you put down the strange coins
to purchase the postcards.

I see you sitting outside
beneath a streetlight in the daylight,
or under a prehistoric tree in a park
writing quickly
so no one sees.
Do you think out your words?
No.
Do you know what you say to me?
Maybe.
Do my lips curl to see them burn?
Yes.

Smelling the putrid chemicals of picture paper,
seeing the golden green scenery ash and blacken
makes me think of your heart.
Go when you want,
see me when you please.

Do I keep your letters, your pictures, your notes
sent across oceans,
sent across distances that cannot be
mended by planes or boats?
No.
I watch the edges burn and send you my best wishes.