The day I buried
your memories,
you sent me a postcard
with your love written
in blood. And despite
the pain you've brought to me,
my hands couldn't fathom
how to drop this last piece of you
into the grave.

You left no return address.
No way for me to slap
you with the stinging
knowledge of how thoughtless
I considered you to be.
So instead I filled the
back of a Polaroid
with everything I never said,
and placed it in the postman's hand.

I told him that if
he ever saw the person
from the picture, and
placed the Polaroid in
his hand, that I would
pay him in stories about
a broken life.

Or if he preferred,
fifty one dollar bills.