Maybe if I sent postcards like this, they would still reach you
faster than my texts. I’m sorry that I pore over those pixels as
if Delivered means deliverance. Skeleton, box, mirror: a lesson in
architecture from the actor-turned-docent. Squinting at the Monadnock,
I thought of you and your cooked-earth facade. How heavy must a load be
until it feels like salvation? Yesterday I bought you soup-shaped candy
because I knew you’d like the tin packaging. Promise me that you won’t
pretend it tastes good. Fate is a jealous tyrant—and if I loved her, I would write
her a postcard too. I’d draw a picture of us, but I can’t quite get your hands right.
