By Susan Cosby
Sitting staring out the tiny window at the city below,
the strange landmarks I cannot recognize,
I'm seeing only your face.
When did this Avalon turn,
how many seasons did it take
to become Babylon?
You looked at me
across the silence
to see what I was thinking
and I wondered how
we ever thought we really knew one another.
Connections made and lost
through the course of a single year.
How is it we rarely see it coming unraveled?
We're just left holding the loose strands of thread
that, upon closer examination,
look as though they never belonged
among the pattern any where, any way.
Drunk and heartsick in the Minneapolis airport,
on the razor thin edge of weeping and holding it together,
surrounded by crew and staff, business travelers,
families on vacation, unfamiliar dialects,
people with a purpose and definite destinations.
I'm here without a map,
a boarding pass in my bag,
and a great yawning nothingness
lying before me
where our futures used to
be intertwined in Celtic circles.
Florescent lights leave me no place to hide,
no corner for solitude and regrouping.
Still I suppose that's what bathroom stalls are for,
for those of us a little lost along life's runway,
failing security checks we conduct on ourselves.
Longing for what has been.
Refusing stagnation in the present.
Forging blindly ahead into the future,
despite fear, despair, anger, heartache, and the tears.
All I know is that this is a temporary place.
No one stays here; we're all just passing through. [↑]
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