i do not always have the words, but i have what they are made of
which is sometimes a whole heart violently dipped
in colour
and as a consequence
dripping so much of it, almost a leak
in the silences one tries to smoothen over
so they don’t twist themselves into speech
or shapes of our lover’s lips.

buying postcards, i have come to realise,
is an endeavour heavy with grief
especially if you’re buying them
with the person you’re going to send them to
in mind, because then one is forced to face
the coarseness of missing: it is just
missing. there are no disguises
and no other names to call it by.
there are no pockets one can stitch the feeling into
and forget. it is just
missing and there is very little one can do about it.
where i could once just add an extra dollop of jam
to your regular toast
to tell you how much i love you (and
it would work like a charm), i only have slices
of these postcards now
and it is not enough. i do not know
how transmissions of the heart work
because i can hear all the noise that absences make
and i don’t know how to tell you to tune in
so i tell you ‘i’ll send you a postcard!!! !’
each of the three exclamation marks
measured, screaming
i do not know how else to tell you
all the things i want to tell you
i do not know if they will sound the same
because so much gets lost
in both translation and transmission

but this postcard
is proof of me trying

and the fourth one is to say
i’m trying
but i don’t know how to keep this up
or keep up with this 





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