This as a PartingP.F. Potvin
She can't think about him without the postcard of Neruda's livingroom. In the foreground next to a purple pillar, the wooden horse that escaped a merry-go rears with pole still in chest, its eyes scanning the cruiseflecked seaside. There's a chair to the right, backed to the open window where she imagines him, reaching in the light to settle the pony. Maybe she should have given him this as a parting gift. Instead she flew here, bought and sent a tiny trampoline home for his heart to get tough on.
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