Postcards

A poem

It tears at my chest
always on holidays
like wildfire in summer winds

it’s the hotel rooms
the perfectly made beds
where everything felt in its place
for those brief, and perfect hours
where our love knew no inhibitions
where we surrendered to each other
our beautiful secret

now I write you
about the Sardinian sunsets
the wine, and the long drives
I visit the places you loved
and I imagine you with me
but all we have are postcards

friendship
a compromise
a result of our cowardice.