Right Now, I Have No Idea What

He Will Hear The Rain Before He Feels It, A Clicking On The Dry Grass, On The Olive Leaves.

The Past Is Still, For Us, A Place That Is Not Safely Settled.

I See The Poem Or The Novel Ending With An Open Door.

From This Point On, She Whispered, We Will Either Find Or Lose Our Souls.

A Postcard. Neat Handwriting Fills The Rectangle. Half My Days I Cannot Bear To Touch You. The Rest Of My Time I Feel Like It Doesn’t Matter If I Will Ever See You Again. It Isn’t The Morality, It’s How Much You Can Bear. No Date. No Name Attached.