The postcard sits on my fridge,
that was our fridge,
Not as a sad reminder of
Better
Times
But as a reminder to miss you.

I don’t miss you anymore
And there’s something cold
And seemingly empty about that,
As if you had meant nothing.

Its from Switzerland’s Chateau De Chillon,
And you said you missed me
Although we had only hung out once
And you disguised your love by saying
‘Much love’
When you signed off,
But we both knew it was a quiet misdirection.

Happiness washes over me reading this
Postcard from a mystery woman in my past
Because that is not who you are now
That was another you
And another me.

I wouldn’t bet the farm that those will be
The happiest moments of our young lives
but anyone hedging bets would not
Handicap that bet too much,
it might be a favourite.

And the beautiful Irish had said
I reminded her of Hemingway because
I was handsome
Honest
And a hell of a writer.

Maybe it didn’t matter what anyone else said,
Besides a handful of lovers,
Because I was handsome and honest,
Worthy of hatred for my vileness,
And I could write.

More importantly,
I was worthy of great love
the deepest sadness
And was hellbent on passing away talent.