Postcards seemed a clumsy way to connect
Big pictures dominating our conversations
Your messages visible to the world
But strangely veiled to me
You wrote vanilla words
Limited by space and the chance that others might read them
Never one for convention
You would number your postcards and send a bunch at once
You scrawled the story of your travels in serial
Unable to hide that your mind strayed to me while you were gone.
Were you inviting me to have vision beyond words and Big Sky pictures?
What did you want me to see?
What conclusion should I draw when neither words nor pictures tell the story?
Nothing said. Everything said.
I popped the postcards on the fridge, closed my eyes and felt you near.