I walk into that airport with space and free hands,
and I need something to fill them both with because they don’t know how to be empty.
Or maybe it’s me that feels empty.
Except for a thought, something that splashes up hard against my chest when I will a smile
as I wave goodbye to my girlie, clear on the other side of the country from home.
So I write it on paper because writing is a photograph of sorts to me,
like when the light shines perfectly on something everyday and turns it into gold
and so I press the shutter so I can remember before it goes.
This is my photograph from curb of the airport,
from the decision to move these feet to the ticket counter,
and through security and into a coffee line and over to a chair facing airplanes:
That I wouldn’t trade one day with you,
Not for all the peace and quiet in the world.
Because you braid color into my one-strand little world.
And I love the shade of you.