Your horizon-curve smiling cheeks fill with
the pink dashes on the front of a postcard.
(Weather's here, wish you were beatiful.)
The city there looks full of anticipation,
the lighted ice-cube windows sliced open for one moment
before they close, or subliminate into the night.
Where they'll go is anyone's guess,
as is what you would have written on the back.
Instead, I'm counting your rose-flavored tally marks
that stand like soldiers to gaurd the sun in your eyes.
(He loathes me, he loathes me not.)
But this is a full cold moon, and your distance promotes
a sort of intangible lunacy that can't be shot down
in the way one closes their face to the morning.
What dawn will bring is anyone's guess,
as is the next world you'll smile behind posting.
