meet me at the post office,
so we can send ourselves
somewhere not so real,
where we can be holy, silly,
and in love without the ifs and buts.
we are not fragile anymore,
but we are still broken,
been glued back together again,
so many times I forget where
the cracks connect to time or just neglect.
instead of a return address,
we will write in our second choices
just to survive anywhere else,
besides Brooklyn or Greenspur Lane,
hoping to end up somewhere new and hopeful.
our hearts are gas station gifts,
yet they deserve thank-you cards,
but no one sends those anymore either,
the only rewards delivered these days
are best guesses and simply trying.