An Airport Kind Of Love

I feel you
in the tread of wheels on pavement,
steady and certain,
in the inhale of breath before takeoff,
as my heart catches in my chest.

I feel you
in the city lights dancing miles below,
in the way we are connected—
earth and sky, leaving
and longing
and the space between
where we close our eyes
and feel one another’s heartbeats
through phone lines, seatbelts,
baggage with worn straps.

I feel you
in the softness
of tired hands holding tickets,
in the cold window where I press my forehead
watching cornfields and mountains blur
to blue-brown-green.

I feel you
in the rush of people,
bags wheeling, children screaming,
heels clicking—
all headed somewhere,
going back, going to
on their way,
excitement like a sweetness
I can taste.

I feel you
in the way our travels bloom
into stories of both sound and silence
and how a single heart can plant roots
in two places
at once,

in the way
heading to wherever you are
has started to feel
like coming home.