Gate 113

I know this gate, this dead end in a cul-de-sac after the cold beer after the hot run through Penn Station at rush hour. I sat here once, years ago now, the gate looks different but the view looks the same; no what I mean is the view looks the same but it feels nothing like it did then, on a day when I sat at this gate and thought my love affair with the skyline in its view was over, when my body screamed for me to get out of this airport, get off this flight path, when I knew, somehow, that I would not be able to live a remaining life without it. You can call me fearful, sure, you can call me hesitant, but you cannot say I do not persist when I know truth in my heart.

The skyline looks different from this angle,
When the goodbye is merely temporary,
When I already look forward to seeing it soon again.