The Postcard

usually I would rejoice to see a handwritten postcard
but I see the handwriting on the wall and stash it under a book
unread, but not forgotten, for how can one forget the
handwriting one has seen one thousand times, how can
one forget the quaking in the stomach at the emotional tsunami such
carefully formed letters can deliver, like the fine line of a needle
into a vein, pierced too many times, it is time to let it scab over
and heal, let this postcard rest under the book in another house,
in some other universe.