Postcards arrive long after silence has fallen on lost souls; words poured out of you as if time would devour this moment
I hear you now, like the light of dying stars that glistened in your eyes on nights when the touch of your hands graced my skin
Whisper softly now, your deepest fears and allow your heart to speak when words have no purpose
Does your heart trust what your mind perceives or have your eyes told you lies about the meaning of love?
Your pen curves and breaks around fragments of broken lovers; the messenger knows not the burden of their duty
A story told of the destruction of what should have been; prose is not prophecy but merely a wish of the ones left behind
So many ways to say, I wish you were here