Postmark

I am driving
a convertible
with the top down
through the desert
at sundown.

My hair whips around my face
in perfect waves.

In that moment,
I don't think
how I am one 80's song away
from being a cinematic cliche.

I smile
into the wind,
feeling everything.

I am celebrating my birthday.

This is my favorite memory.
Like all of my favorite memories,
I am alone.

I lie on my back
staring at the ceiling.

To my right
on the nightstand
is the postcard you sent.
The postmark
tells me I loved you first.
But these are things one does not say.

To my left
is an empty vase.
You almost brought me flowers once.