still, the corduroy jacket gripped in my fingers,
ear pressed to your thumping heart --
slow breathing --
lingering, holding off…
numb and disbelieving
and grasping on to minutes, seconds as they
whisper past us
your guitar case rests against the wall;
a line of passengers filed
it’s almost 1 p.m.
almost time for you to go,
almost time --
but i am clutching the corduroy still.
your heart faintly beating into my
ears full of blood pulsing --
still among the rolling wheels of luggage bags
and automatic doors…
releasing,
i meet your almond eyes with mine
small pools contorting your face
and without words, a kiss
the second-to-last time i will ever feel the softness
you press your whiskered cheek
to one side, then the other
in that French way of yours
but this time, it's the ache of adieu
in the pressure of your lips
you extract from your pocket
a single sheet pressed into sixteenths
and say to me with gentle transfer,
“read this when you get home”
and stepping back,
the space is tangible.
you make a joke as you gather your things;
a single desperate burst of a laugh,
and it is not enough.
suddenly,
it is not enough.
closing the space, i reach;
my fingers delved into your frizzy black curls,
a single stroke of tongue and pillowed closure --
the very last time.
the promise of contact,
the "call me when you arrive home,"
no goodbye.
we do not speak goodbyes,
and still
i cannot speak them.
i see the radiating pulse of reality --
it does not register.
i turn before i comprehend
before i cannot leave at all
and with the song playing over in my head,
promising things unpractical --
“i will see you again,”
walk through the people
with my face beginning its contortions,
briskly and without looking back, there is no other way,
through the automatic doors
into cold kansas city again...
empty and abruptly without you --
