“ all these days i
waited for word
wondering how you
are
and finally i hear
from you:
a twentyfive pasie
postcard
stamped at a small
town post office
in some distant
land
and not a word on
it, but for the address
written in your
hand
and a stupid sketch
of the hills at dusk
with wiggly greens
and squiggly crags
the pale sky with
silly wispy clouds
and silhouetted
prayer flags
so you’d like me to
believe you thought of me, if only for an evening
but i know that’s
not true
some misplaced
sense of guilt you’ve been running from i guess
must’ve finally
caught up with you
(so fuck off ) ”
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