at the bottom of the escalator in terminal 3
I’m sorry
He says
And I hear
Don’t go.
I carefully study the dust
The shadows
The darkness
The hope in the future
Anything except
His eyes.
He takes my hands
Warms my fingers
Kisses me with the gift of release
Brushes my soul with a last
Moment of sunshine
And lets me go.
I’m sorry
I say
But I mean
Goodbye.
Traveler’s Deja Vu
My shoes have walked these carpets before,
On a different continent but
It was the same.
It is always the same.
Quiet sunset, orange glare reflecting
Off the windows but the
Chaos never ends and
It is an odd contrast, calm and frantic
Side by side here.
We are sprawled out, headphone cords
Held in cool palms, hands that know this routine.
The man next to us is tired, army green and brown.
The woman across the walkway is saying goodbye,
Teary eyes and too many hugs…
Maybe it is her first time – she is young.
I can’t remember my first time.
The little ants in neon vests outside are scurrying
And inside every type of shoe imaginable walks past
But it all feels familiar, deja vu from a thousand
Past experiences – my passport might not agree
But I am an International; airports will always
Feel like home.
Read more TCK poems – this one includes a response from Elizabeth Hemp