Final days always disappear in a whirl, in a flash, two weeks of a trip feels like two months but it's a ruse because time is a construct, you see your philosophies simmer like the hazy tropical days you are leaving behind. You know nothing lasts forever, but it's so hard to accept in the parting. He stands in the window outside the terminal with farewell waves and your heart aches despite itself. Separations always tore your heart in two (why then did you insist on making so many of them on your own?).
Later, at the gate, you try to wade through work long abandoned but your heart isn't in it. Your heart is elsewhere, maybe everywhere, your heart is a million miles wide
your heart
grows and flows beyond what you thought it remembered how to do.
Years you spent buried in the quagmire, forgetting how it might be to feel this way. But they do not matter now.
What hides underneath the ground
is of no concern
when you spend your days
flying.
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