The engines shriek in silver tone,
a hollow hymn through steel and bone-
and I am drifting, small and alone,
somewhere between your heart and home.
Florida air still clings to me-
that southern, heavy humidity,
the kind you curse so bitterly.
Oh, how I miss your company.
I walked through the places you grew,
through grocery stores that are true to you.
Imagining your laughter too,
in spots painted Carolina blue.
I traced the doors you must have touched,
the tables where your hands have brushed-
and though it wasn't really us,
you felt so near, it hurt enough.
We shared everything, from timezone to air,
the same thick warmth, the same salted glare.
It almost felt as if you were there,
a ghost beside my vacant hotel chair.
Now California waits for me,
wide and dry and far from sea.
But something in the altitude
keeps screaming your name-
don't go.
And somewhere far beneath this plane,
you're staring at your phone again.
I read your words in the quiet rain:
don't go.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 1:33 AM UTC
The engines shriek in silver tone,
a hollow hymn through steel and bone-
and I am drifting, small and alone,
somewhere between your heart and home.
Florida air still clings to me-
that southern, heavy humidity,
the kind you curse so bitterly.
Oh, how I miss your company.
I walked through the places you grew,
through grocery stores that are true to you.
Imagining your laughter too,
in spots painted Carolina blue.
I traced the doors you must have touched,
the tables where your hands have brushed-
and though it wasn't really us,
you felt so near, it hurt enough.
We shared everything, from timezone to air,
the same thick warmth, the same salted glare.
It almost felt as if you were there,
a ghost beside my vacant hotel chair.
Now California waits for me,
wide and dry and far from sea.
But something in the altitude
keeps screaming your name-
don't go.
And somewhere far beneath this plane,
you're staring at your phone again.
I read your words in the quiet rain:
don't go.
