write me a postcard that makes you think of me
so i can think of you when you're thinking of me
when walking St. John's Wood, the streets and the fever,
the urge indescribable, terrible, beautiful,
writer your feet must have felt so on fire
like your heart and your eyes filled with tears and desires
and regrets and resolve and no focus at all,
just an angelic wanderer, never living at all


and when you're done being gone
let me know
that you're okay


life across centuries, loneliest exile!
you live inside typewriters, 180 vinyl shards,
lightbulbs and shower scars, polaroid paradise,
frescoes from Italy season your floor and your
arrows of apathy run through your flesh like some
bored St. Sebastian so fed up with feeling,
you're drinking the empathy drawn by your friends
busy feeling so full and so empty you're trying by
worshipping Sylvia, Mangum and Hemingway,
Newsom and writers of lovely and dreary things.
whisper their names in a soft hallelujah
while they should be praying to yours


and when you're done being gone
let me know
that you're okay