Never Mailed

I found it behind the others on the shelf,

the ones that made it, with their stamps,

their smudged handwriting and faded self,

while this one still gleams in the lamps.

The front is bright—that place we went,

that street we walked along that year,

but the back is blank, completely spent,

as if I was saving it for something dear.

For two years I kept meaning to send,

kept thinking of words I could write,

kept seeing the stamp, and I'd spend

an hour just holding it tight.

But the distance grew, they moved away,

and the words became too heavy to hold,

and now this postcard has nothing to say,

and the person I meant to reach has grown old.