4.29.18

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Sometimes I miss my sixteen-year-old heart, with its innocent airport terminals, filled with constant arrivals and departures, beginnings and ends.
There are times I miss the sound of your voice as it reverberates through the gate.
I watched you leave, the plane taking off, and already I was picturing your return -- bursting through the gate, dropping the handles of your suitcase, rushing towards me before your lips fall into mine effortlessly.
Except, this never happened.
I'm sorry you missed your flight back to me.
But right now my plane is boarding and I'm on my way out.

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