I don’t know why we pretended we knew how to love. The word is maggoty; the sentiment stale, flimsy. For what it’s worth, I would — for a moment — step inside your head. I picture it in quite the literal sense: grayish pink, spongy, convoluted. An image that reflects your personality.

We are always cruel in the abandoning of love. On either side. Sharp malice modifies betrayer and betrayed. We spent years learning how to abandon each other perfectly. Even so, we find these peripheral flickers of regret. Always just shy of action. Chord progressions that don’t resolve in loving you.

(Postcards #7 & #8)

I was driving home after a day of everything falling into place. Familiar scenes shifted into new angles and became intoxicating. I looked at the stars as if they had been pinned to the sky for the first time. I arrived to find this. My eyes are hazel. You twit.

(Postcard #6)

I remember that incident as something less than romantic. I’m not going to be nostalgic. Every time you weren’t looking, I lit up. There was never any spot. If you’ll pardon the pun, I just needed a smoke screen. You were smart, but you never once drank whiskey with me.

(Postcard #5)

Once upon a time, everything you said and did amused me. I adored the beat that wound up your ankles past your knees to the delicious curve of your hips. Even though you wouldn’t pick hip-hop out of a discount bin at the supermarket. You really don’t amuse me anymore.

(Postcard #4)