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Postcards

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I haven’t slept very well since the last time we talked.
The sky suddenly seem less fascinating,
the air is no longer fresh, my eyes no longer twinkle,
I have trouble getting up in the morning.
The text messages on my phone with your
sweet words no longer sing me to sleep,
instead, the absence of you keeps me awake more
than any dose of caffeine ever could.

Sometimes, I lay on the roof of my mind,
swallowed by the galaxies inside my head,
thinking of all the things I could’ve said, would’ve said, should’ve said,
too bad there’s only so many words you can fit on the back of a -
postcard before it overflows with unwanted emotion.
Instead of reaching out to you, I just sit here wishing that you
would’ve realize that to me, you weren’t just a star,
you were the whole damn sky.

Still now, I send letters into space hoping that some mailman somewhere
would track you down and recognize you with the descriptions in my poems,
that he would place the stack of them in your hands, and tell you,
“there is a girl who still writes to you, she doesn’t know how not to.”



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