Postcard

Hello,
Such a long time
Isn't it? -
The postcard reads,
Your name fitted in
Precariously at the end.
The flamingoes remind me
Of our journeys in spring,
Your laughter tingling the air.

Some centuries pass like this,
I tell myself,
Love living underground
In a cave, with no wish
To see the light of day.

I hold the postcard
With my own two hands,
Like I held your face.
It births a warmth,
Seeps through my psyche,
Spurring electricity
And some amaze.

Our roots have grown,
Spread far and wide,
You have a child
I will perhaps never know,
I have a secret
You might encounter
When I'm long dead.

What is this then?
This mild scribbling
Of things, a desire
To know what goes
And what can never be.