Hmm, not sure.

You have sent me a postcard of you as goodbye.

Something tells me this, but it isn't you
who stares placidly. I can only see your contours
and nothing of your colour.

You are younger than I remember, with your arms like that.
Perfect. It's been a long time
since I touched you; but you know that of course.

You are not looking at the camera, or me. I note this
as an exercise in delivery and take heart
that the stranger is a woman which goes to either
prove or disprove a point. The t-shirt you're lifting
is one I bought you. That memory must stay now
as I am; an exorcise in black and white postcards.