Airports feel like slipping
beneath security lines and
constantly losing purchase on people.
Darting over connected seats to glass windows,
everywhere is somewhere to watch you leave.
Finding which plane to track
gets difficult as
into shapes of you.
Just another few years to
kill waiting for you in the
lobby of departures.
Maybe next time you’ll get me a
new apology from the airport gift shop. I keep the last
one with me at night
pretending I’m still the child you bought it for. Sometimes I
question if you
Sometimes I question if I lost you in
the sky or if it was on the
underground train to terminal C. I don’t remember
very well. But I can’t seem to forget
why we say goodbye in front of the full body
x-ray machine. I always hope the security line is long because