Your address, please.
Just a letter until again we meet,
when I’ll be the one riding the proud Belgian steed.
Or perhaps a bus or a train,
or you might see my plane landing.

Maybe our flights will cross above the Atlantic
and for a moment our blood will thicken.
But then you’ll be in Spain
and I’ll go home to cook fair trade meals in my own kitchen.

Maybe I will be lost in a Dutch forest
and fade into a myth and go missing.

Until then,
a frantic post card scribble with a stubby pencil.
And it’s hard to read,
But I promise it says I miss you.
It’s just smudged from the ridges
on the fat skin bridge
from my palm to my pinky.

Until we meet again, my friend -
In the sky probably.