On my wall I pinned the postcards you sent me from Malta, Ibiza, Gomera, Greece,… my fingers jumped from pools of fluorescent water to cats haunting crusty archways. I used to pine at your absence – an idea – as I fingered those battered papers haunting my wall. Each image is a face watered down by time. The stamps are smiling from their contained box though my fingers scratched their upturned corners from the card till I had your location unpinned. Once, you gave me Madrid: a water fountain, but I sent its crumbs to haunt the wind. Your signature varied from “your father” to “Joel” and my haunt would always be wrong: you’d pin it as a boulevard rather than a street (or water it down to a path). But eventually, my fingers chased those scattered scraps pinned against bins, imprinted, or sailing watery grass. I rescued my wronged address from the pond and the litter man’s fingers, though your signature is still out there, haunting. My fingers stopped trying to pin you down, you sent no more hauntings from over the water.