postcard he sent me postcards of grand vague dreams typewritten with half-lines of poetry lines to be finished over wine in my dim-lit apartment at dusk i fold laundry as he reads me The Wasteland the T.S. Eliot look in his eye warms my center as our eyes meet over my half-folded pair of briefs the postcard on the desk has a line from Byron but the book is long gone scrapped for cigarette-rolling paper and the ripped-book-binding conveys the moment better than words ever could isn’t the phrase i love you so paltry in comparison?
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