She returns to the airport, bags full, heart kneaded. You drop her off and collapse on the couch, watching the hours while away but not unhappy about it. Sometimes we need to sit in silence to hear the things we said.
The rain continued unabated the whole day, seemingly in agreement. Red Hook comes out of its shell, prepares for its season in the sun. You find homes on other shores. May itches in you like a seasonal allergy, a chronic condition you're in no rush to kick.
I remember what it was like to want to kiss you.
But not more than I remember how it feels
to have the road underneath your feet.
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