I have just read your postcard.
Your choice to write postcards in these digital years of instant mail fills me with joy,
I run my index on your writing, I smell the Queen on the stamp and quickly
put the things you’ve written to me away in the most interesting part of my brain.
Your greetings make my head spin,
as if I were a globe and you were a hand that makes me revolve until I reach a country that doesn’t exist,
the country where we are together in the moment when I read and you write.
I couldn’t find your pen, I have searched everywhere.
No, this isn’t completely true.
I haven’t searched everywhere, I still want to search and I have left some corner unexplored
because you know that I like the fact that hidden things have an edge over my intentions.
I know you understand me and I know you don’t understand me, and I do the same to you.
When you come back to Paris, your pen will be on my writing-table.
Check the ink cartridge before you kiss me, and you will discover that not even a drop has been used,
I could never write with your pen, words rebel against improvised owners.
I kiss you goodbye and go out for a walk.
This evening I will be more eager and a bit happier.
p.s. Madame Guinot has identified you, but I told her that she was wrong.