There isn’t a fourth postcard. I tell myself I’m not waiting for it, I’m not looking for it, I don’t care if I never hear from him again, but they’re all lies. Like the one he’s living now, or so he says. God, I wish I had had the courage to tell him how I felt all those years ago when I had the chance
All the nights I slept in my narrow bed and dreamed of him. All the days I wanted to make him mine. All the words I could have said and never did.
When I’m alone, I remember the way his hands felt along my body that night, so tentative and yet so sure, so eager. I still feel his touch, his kisses, his curls in my hands. I still taste him on my tongue, his body on my lips. I still smell the intoxicating mix of his own musky scent mingled with alcohol and sweat and s*x. Sometimes in the morn
