Sometimes I look at the people around me, on the bus, on the sidewalk, in the theater, in the grocery store, and think about the secret love stories they carry in their hearts. Stories they haven’t told anyone else, maybe, or a love so far in the past that no one in their lives today remembers that person but them. I hope that when they remember that love and how treasured they felt, even for a few days or a few months or a few years, that somewhere in the world their former love thinks of them, and smiles, and lights up for a minute.

Postcards, by Wendy Cope

At first I sent you a postcard
from every city I went to.
𝘎𝘳ü𝘴𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘶𝘴 𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘶𝘴 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘢𝘮,
𝘈𝘶𝘴 𝘙𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘮, 𝘢𝘶𝘴 𝘛𝘦𝘭 𝘈𝘷𝘪𝘷.
𝘔𝘪𝘵 𝘓𝘪𝘦𝘣𝘦. Cards from you arrived
in English, with many commas.
𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦,
says one from Hong Kong. By that time
we weren’t writing quite as often.

Now we’re nearly nine years away
from the lake and the blue mountains,
And the room with the balcony,
But the heat and light of those days
can reach this far from time to time.
Your latest was from Senegal,
mine from Helsinki. I don’t know
if we’ll meet again. Be happy.
If you hear this, send a postcard.

Click here for more information about Wendy Cope. Today’s poem is from If I Don’t Know, published in 2001 by Faber and Faber.

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My podcast: Words by Winter