He takes a photo of a photo of a woman above
the rooftops of northern Cuba and she muses
out loud (far from a photograph) on the nature
of their journey and destination, together,
separately, scribbles a note across the miles
on the back of a vintage postcard Wish you
were here. Three hearts in a travelogue built
for two, he passes blue unmarked doors off the
plaza catedral, wonders which leads to happiness,
which only to Hemingway’s cats. Back through
customs, he says Let’s not live as though we have
an expiration, but she has been here before; it was
heartbreaking then. How does one overcome a shared
history, architecture? She bought the t-shirt, packed
up her souvenirs but has yet to learn the language.
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