Postcard

Now that it is raining,
and the Atlantic is far away—

Remember the graffiti?
And the construction?
And how the azulejos,
had fallen from broken facades?

Remember those pastries—
was it the pastries?
Was it the hundreds of vines
fluttering against the building?

Was it your misery?
The white washcloth?
The tonic water?

It was the paella.
It was the luggage.
It was the chattering of birds.
It was you. And it was me.