return to sender

i only write when i’m not in love,
or so i often tell myself,
but truth be told,
i am not in love.
truth be told,
i haven’t written in months.

instead, i let postcards pile up in my brain,
stacks upon stacks of them,
addressed to people i miss and people i will never meet,
sent from places i wish i could call home.

they say things like
i wish we had more time
and
i am still writing about you
and 
please forgive me
and
that one, in the pile on the ground,
with the faded Eiffel Tower on the front — 
that one has your address on it.

i’ve never been to Paris 
but i can imagine us there together, can’t you?
the sky is the brightest blue we’ve ever seen.
there are tourists wandering the streets,
holding maps and bottles of water.
they are smiling and laughing,
and we are sitting on a park bench,
and

i am still writing about you.
please forgive me.

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