At the edge of a weathered postcard,
the faintest glisten, by which memory holds true
and offers proof—There were people, a trip,
a sea, clouds, fragile patterns, mist.
There was this life, where we dreamed,
and so this postcard, this fated token
from an ancient future, between grave and laughter,
which you will one day hold between your hands
and realize you were in heaven the whole time.