Boston, 1997

You gather up the bright sparkles of words
As I curl in a ball silent, wet with pain,
I cannot tell you that you mustn't… yet
I am always surprised that you leave.

You sweep the smiles, pack the hints,
fold the innuendo, roll up the declarations,
hang the signs and symbols and certainties
on their small travel hangers.
I watch them, wide-eyed, as they disappear.

You handle them, lightly, I watch, admiring.
And I look, as I always do, for something
that might not fit in your small bag. This time.
Did you find something more on this trip?
Ah, no. I see.

I go to my plane
obedient
as always
You go to your plane
silent
as always

And I watch the small bag.
Is everything really in there?
Is that all your luggage, sir?
Ah, yes. I see.

And far away already you
slip into something more familiar
where my chair, my space, the curve of your hip,
the bend in your arm… is occupied.

This time nothing has changed except
everything. For me.

And this is the way the flights end
this is the way our dream ends
this is the way my hope ends.

Trapped in the wreckage
of promises.