When the postcard traveled to the city

on

I wished upon a December sunlight, that your body, your words would rub against mine when you would step outside to feel that no door can hold your light.
I lie down in the bathtub, bleeding with memoirs of how we as animals have destroyed hearts over whiskies and bodies over romance yet I see you as my only sin that I can never make it happen. You would touch the mix-tapes and fix it again and again to let me know that all this while you missed voices that would echo in your heart, mine being one of the prime voices that would burn all of your body into this string of words that might just fill voids of a stranger. For it grips me and tightens my wrist, letting the blood not reach this letter. Covering page by page with my thoughts.
I ask myself to crush the glass again and again and run towards you, for the bridge between our lips seems endless and I might just crawl again to see you strangled in strings that would lead to me. But are you there, darling? Ninth letter to you and my postman smiles at me, tells me that he might bring this back again, like it was a normal day and I would run around the fields with my kite hoping for you to write but you won’t. I somehow look in the lens of your old Polaroid and try to imagine you in the dusty film roll that we once laid our eyes on.
Pushing it gently over my body and whispering to my body ” I have captured you” and why wouldn’t I laugh to be your prisoner. These four walls, you, this is my home. I hope you are okay after reading the news in the paper about the blast and I wish to travel to you.
But will I be able to find you again, lost in my thoughts and running fingers on your skin to trace me?
My postman seems confident today as I lock this letter, safely stitched is a cloth that would remind you of me.
I hope you can dust off our pictures.
To the tenth letter I won’t be writing to you,
I hope that you return on a December sunlight.

 

Yours.

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