postcards don’t do a thing
for my heart
the rain has made a blur
of your thoughts and i’m left
with a mess of blue ink
running rivers into my prints
wish you were here, with love
from some place that really isn’t too far off from where my mind is today
and only a train ticket away
from where it was just yesterday
and i know you didn’t mean it,
whatever it was you said that’s now
flooding my pores with indigo
good or bad
i know you didn’t mean it
i catch the corner of the soggy card
with a lick of hot white flame while i heat water for tea
and let it reflect in on itself in the sink
i leave midnight colored marks on everything
sprinkle ashes into a plastic sleeve in a scrapbook
among the dried flowers
and dusty dead skin
of past regrets