Passport
Somewhere over Australia he slipped my mind.
Sometime between islands in Thailand I forgot to worry about what he was doing, where he was, who he was with, if he was walking them home in the rain, if he was waking up next to them, pulling them closer with every morning inhale.
As I crossed from Greece to Italy I stopped replaying the smile on his face as he studied mine, the way his arm hooked lovingly around my neck, how I so desperately wanted to ask him what he was feeling in that moment.
Passing through airport security I realized I could no longer remember the sound of his voice or the way his presence felt.
It was running away from it all, but in a greater sense, a larger scale.
It was escaping from all these things that maybe no longer mattered, maybe never did.
And now as he crosses streets in his new hometown, passes under stoplights on the way to his new job, I wonder if he's peacefully erased the way my finger tips felt against his cheek, my deep inhales when I'm nervous, the weight of my head against his shoulder.
Distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder, it makes it grow up- realize what's right in front of you rather than hundreds of miles away.
And when he's back- if he comes back- no country line can stop it all from coming back to me then.
Sometime between islands in Thailand I forgot to worry about what he was doing, where he was, who he was with, if he was walking them home in the rain, if he was waking up next to them, pulling them closer with every morning inhale.
As I crossed from Greece to Italy I stopped replaying the smile on his face as he studied mine, the way his arm hooked lovingly around my neck, how I so desperately wanted to ask him what he was feeling in that moment.
Passing through airport security I realized I could no longer remember the sound of his voice or the way his presence felt.
It was running away from it all, but in a greater sense, a larger scale.
It was escaping from all these things that maybe no longer mattered, maybe never did.
And now as he crosses streets in his new hometown, passes under stoplights on the way to his new job, I wonder if he's peacefully erased the way my finger tips felt against his cheek, my deep inhales when I'm nervous, the weight of my head against his shoulder.
Distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder, it makes it grow up- realize what's right in front of you rather than hundreds of miles away.
And when he's back- if he comes back- no country line can stop it all from coming back to me then.