it isn’t especially beautiful here.
sight seeing comes undone
under a myopic vision.
festive sounds hurt ears
that seek cemeteries.
there is the ocean
somewhere at the end of which
you might get the message
in a bottle i just floated.
it is unlikely though.
for one, you are afraid of water.
i intend to roam streets
from nightfall to dawn
looking for a wilted orange flower.
a street lamped spot of yellow.
ruby cheeked laughter ridden children.
to send you a picture postcard.
you will know my handwriting,
so names will be unnecessary.
or terms of endearment.
always such a burden for us.
there will be your address
(that i recall everyday,
to forget you)
and scrawled in green ink
(what else could it be?)
“whatever”.
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