I wish you'd send me home in your shirt half-buttoned and hiding little blooms of hurt.
The good kind, I wouldn't mind covering my collarbones pressing them with fingertips to
make me moan all over again when I leave for the world of mine and you fill your time with your usual work.
Twenty hours in an aisle seat, against all logic if you wanted it, all you had to do was ask me.
One word from you and we'd meet, it took so many more to say you'd pass, and even
now I breathe out hopeless dreams of changing that.
You had the magic act and prop gun, I know the stage was made for blanks but fingers on my chest say I'm still bleeding out, in front of everyone.
So I'll hang around the airline waiting room, watching each departure from the chairs, holding
postcards like I've never been there, giddy for each echoed destination, carving hearts out of the
constellations when they leave soon.
Pretending, with a hand around my empty bag, that I'm on my way to see you.