Postcards

Someone ignorant of this city would spend too much time looking at you. Someone might say you have a mouth made for postcards.

Would miss the sweet humid espresso, the clink of clumsy Sunday cups and saucers at the Portuguese cafe clinging to the sea wall. Would want with hunger, with mouths that would miss the perfect salt of salmon and yellow lemons. Someone might miss everything.

Later, back where they came from, would describe to friends how rain furrowed your forehead and would overuse the phrase "you had to be there." Later, it's all about false idols and missed streets. I shouldn't like later so much.