I sat in the gallery café,
amidst the clink of knife
on plate, ice in glass, the wash of
words, a parent to a child, one lover to
another, and I wrote you.
I wrote you slowly, fearful of speed,
and what it might set loose, considering
each word for its nuance, its possible subtext,
and I re-read all of them over and over and
I even paused at the blue mailbox,
wondering how hard it would be
to fetch back the card once inside.
But, now, a week, a few days more,
the card is still here;
It rests leaden on my heart,
solid, thick with years.