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Postcard to California
There's a postcard I sent you
which traveled in flying machines
waiting for your eyes to lay on its body. It frayed and torn
perhaps too tired to care for itself.
Jetlagged from its journey through
humming machines,
encountering nameless facess
it didn't understand.
It needs a rest
of which only you can provide; but not until it see
your eyes light up
when your soul met mine.

It is in bondage
and its fate
is yours to make--
a doom of which it will dissolve
to nevermore
or your guilt will be its savior.
 

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