The Postcard’s Edge

Under floorboards, brittle and curled,

a postcard whispers to a dust-drowned world.

Ink faded, advice smeared in time’s slow bite—

words I found when the night was already tight.

"Hold close what slips before it’s gone," it said,

but I folded my hands instead, turned my head.

A crooked curl, yellowed at the rim,

a missed tool now useless and dim.

I carry the weight of what I never chose to wield,

a blade dulled by the silence sealed.

If I could press the stamp, send it back in reverse,

maybe then I’d learn how not to disperse.