"you only hug me in airports" was the last thing I heard her say
as she opened her arms
to her eldest daughter
and I was nothing short of amazed
when they walked into each others arms
I saw her close her eyes
if only for a second
drinking the moment through her pores
as if the rest of us were invisible
even to the night
that moment seemed to stretch
to morph
to erase years of pain
and close the gap of months
in a single step

together

I wonder if she heard the screaming in her ears
or the sound of glass breaking
the rain on her face
the night that she slammed the door on that same little girl
now an adult
but still small enough to fit between arms
I'll never know what happened between them
but I imagine it like lightning
hitting their chests in a terrifyingly beautiful fashion
and I was waiting for her daughter
to cry out
"no, you only hug me in airports"
and I'm not sure
if they will ever see each other
again
I wonder if they're happy
or simply

content

"I love you."
those three sweet
meaningless words
always find their way into my head
and roll around like they're stuck
in a box
moving from house to house
never really finding a place
to call "home"

and i wish i could get the idea of you
and those three words out of my mind
but you’re stuck there
as much as we both hate it
and each other

day after day
you’re still there
in my veins
in my bloodstream
my pulse spells out your name

I haven’t washed you from my sheets
out of fear that my body
will miss your slight touch
or out of fear that
I may be forgetting you
and I don’t want to
but I need to

and if you look closely enough
to the scars on my arms
they tell a story
in chronological order
of how I fell in
and out
of love
with you

(a.k.)