Wish You Were

I’m moving the dresser to get at the wall,

and the card slides out like it’s taking a fall.

It’s a view of Seattle, all shadows and rain,

stuck for three years in a dark, wooden vein.

I bought it for her when the world was still wide,

then kept it in back where the dust likes to hide.

The picture is glossy, the sky is a bruise,

the kind of a city where everyone loses.

The back is a desert of flat, empty white,

no stamps and no ink and no reason to write.

The space for the name is as blank as a bone,

telling me everything about being alone.