Meanwhile in Bratislava

did you ever get my postcard? 
It didn’t say much, but it had my name scribbled
in the corner. I smell of cinnamon tea and sleep, 
and my bed smells like I never let it breathe.
I keep thinking I want sun, but it has grown unfamiliar,
and at least the demons here are my own. I miss
your hair down to your knees, and the way your shoulders
always said du calme, du calme please. Love, me. 
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