Corduroy Jacket

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 --