It's only words,

I think you sent me a postcard once. It was just a postcard, addressed to me in unidentifiable block lettering, with nothing at all written on the message side. On the front was a picture of a pig and a horse in fancy hats and polka-dot dresses. It was exactly the kind of thing you would never in a million years pick off a postcard rack, and so that's why I figured it must be from you, yet another layer to hide behind.

It was postmarked from London.
It is not true, what they say, about writing being the next best thing to being there. For days I stared at that postcard and touched it in all the places I imagined you had, when you wrote the address and when you fixed the stamp into place and all the other places I thought you may have touched. But never once did I feel like I'd found you again.