draft of a poem


You send me postcards
of things we love to draw:
lighthouses amidst bleak skies,
shells sleeping under a spread of sand,
I can see you making postcards, 
a hint of a smile
on your face, and sad songs bearing
down on your back.

It’s been this way—mails counting
the distance between us,
and nights blinding our thoughts.
You never asked me what you are
to me, how you fit into my plans,
how I wedge you in my life.
When I look at your postcards,
I feel a tug, a tiny break latches
onto my breathing as I cross the street


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