Post cards cannot build a body
it took me too long to realize this
I thought I could write love letters and somehow the words would come off the page and make me real again
but you cannot build a body with stationary seasoned by my perfume alone

it took over 14 almost near the edge could have should have been but weren't breakups
for me to realize her eyes did not shine galaxies for me anymore
that when she stared at me she no longer saw an imperfectionist's masterpiece
the replication of her own self, a carbon copy printed from too much time spent together

ink fused molecules made fingerprints through my fingertips,
but instead of a distinctly swirled thumbprint,
I saw only an oval shaped splotch that was supposed to represent me,
like I just slit myself open and let ink pour from my veins,
let me tell you that does not make you anymore real than the hypnotic pattern spelled out on those letters

I finally realized that as much as I loved her, I love myself more

that those galaxies that went darker than her pupils dimmed out because she could not find the strength to love me anymore
that these calloused hands of mine could no longer intertwine with hers
because my anxiety caused them to tremble far too much for her liking,
that when I offered my palms up to her one last time she cast them aside and insisted she could write scrawling calligraphy from her own ink

when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t see her quill rowing waves on blank paper,
I only saw her tipping over the well of black tar onto my own,
and every time I try and purge the shimmering oil from my page,
I only end up past my elbows in her mess

for hours, I scrub and scratch at the skin on my arms hoping that somehow I can remove her from my body,
but all my attempts end in vain, because she’s made her way into my veins,
and I cannot let her out
because every time I try and write her off,
all that comes out of me is tainted ink.