Postcard to Nowhere

The man I love is standing by the sink: he’s tired of his beard.

The shaving foam is floating over the waves;
as the water is driving itself back to the shore
it belongs to.

The sand from my grandfather’s garden –
and the teal sky is from the day when we
were catching clouds.

Me, in the lime green bikini which currently lies
curled up in the attic, which I could never bring
myself to throw.

Lying over the yoga mat from back in sixth grade,
hiding in yet another space, which I only ever
see in glimpses.

The sun is falling with the strength of the home,
yet the gentleness of the house, and I realise:
I’ll miss this.

I make these things up in my head: I need a photo to call home.