MISSENT TO TORTOLA

a weak laugh grasps this cardboard azuleijo, my mouth endless for another plate of sardinhas capped with caipirinhas, remembering how far we'd journey to ripen our youth, settled on plans for next time, always a next time Of course that's all I have left to show for our decade of runaway love, a cursive hug on a ticket to the world, our currency, as sure of its distance as the shrinking margins of the postcards I don't know what's more ready to retire- passports native to a borderless love, stamped with apples and hot table chicken from the third country of the week, or the tears you mend with your tongue each time you hazard a chance at finding home It reads,

Com Amor, De Portugal

From: A.

Rotterdam, Nederland, Priority

Hi love, this summer feels different indeed; more mature, less frivolous.

I can't believe I might actually buy a home in the fall, finally? It's

worth remembering other seasons can still bring us this feeling we crave.

Free and limitless is in our heads, not in the months of the year.

Enjoy your month in France. Next time I see you will be at my new place!

To: Elena-Cristina Feraru

Toronto, ON, Canada