Postcards

I’ve found that postcards can no longer deliver the message I’m desperate to send. I can stain my lips in sultry red, pressing them against that cold, blank canvas – but what good is that if I long to feel them pressed against yours ? I could spend hours writing out cliché lines of affection, but I can’t articulate how I miss the way you pull me closer when I’m already standing right next to you, and that tiny, tiny space between us becomes just too much for you to bear. How do I fit every unimportant detail about the way the train woke me up in the middle of the night only to remind me that I am here – and you are there – and these two places are not the same ? Words are words, but how can I make you feel what I feel when it’s two in the afternoon, and the sun is shining, and the trees are swaying gently in the breeze, dancing with mother nature, and all is well in world except for that small part of my heart that just won’t stop sighing ? Will smeared ink reflect the way my mascara has run down my face as I’ve wept softly in the shower, overcome by that deep, burdensome longing to be sitting on a bench in the middle of nowhere with you for one, single second in time ? Will poorly composed run on sentences be symbolic enough for the urges I have to put these two, bony feet on the ground and run straight into your arms – ten thousand miles away ? That ever growing distance that I can never seem to beat…perhaps I’m just a little jealous of who my postcards get to see.

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