The postcard was faded almost white

The postcard was faded almost white.

My name crossed out. Hers underneath—

the pen pressing so hard it dented the paper.

I didn't open it at first. Just held it.

The lighthouse image barely visible anymore,

her handwriting taking up all the space,

writing over the sky, over the beam of light.

When I finally read it, I had to squint.

Her words stacked like she was running out of room.

Like she had to say everything at once.

Postmarked June. I found it in April.

Eight months in a postal bin somewhere.

Eight months of my mail bouncing around,

of my name crossed out and stamped wrong

by someone who didn't know me.

I read the postcard anyway.

Every layer. Every word she thought would find me.

But I'm not the person who lived at that address.

I'm not the person she was trying to reach.

The lighthouse is barely a suggestion now.

Her handwriting is all that's left.

All that's left of her trying to tell me something

that stopped mattering the moment the card got marked

return.