Your postmark is a blue bruise from Germany. It is smeared— the letters blur and bleed together. I wait hours Tuesday for your secret dog-eared message. The smell of smoke and pub alcohol—your dark ale hair and hangdog slouch.
Friday is Amsterdam— your daybreak home, and soon one from Belgium. I stack them, to the left on my desk study how their right corners all bend where you sign your name.
Not all are even, some are crooked and severe. I touch them and see the cardstock fibers ripple— how they fold in on each other, tiny layers of paper—tiny layers of you.
Remember a month ago, our Sunday in Eindhoven.
Now, I rub the ink. There is a measure of pressure in the lines of each letter, a small thumb print in ink, your left-hand smears greeting my fingers back-and-forth—I rub memorize your Love.
I want your permanence and the long slender bridge of that L to tangle me to you, hook me with its bottom lip. I want that from you, but next week you’ll be speaking Dutch,
falling out of love— falling out of me.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge, which required that the words ‘remember + greeting + daybreak’ must be included. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.