He is who you want to see at the airport, half asleep, pastel sweatshirt half zipped. Half length shorts ending just above the knees. Eyes matching the green and blue abstract swirls patterned into the carpet to hide passenger sick-up.
The background to travelling japanese circus photos, they’ll look back in their scrapbooks, past the ponies on the baggage carousel, see him waiting for the delayed international arrival.
Stiff legs tread quietly down grey hallways, stringing a stickered suitcase along moving walkways, thoughts caught between continents, in escalator’s teeth.
Tiptoeing over the hot coffee spilled like oil, the taste of morning breath clinging to the back of the throat, chalky as chilled ashes, abandoned and unswallowed.
When the taxis are cold and the day’s been worn out, before it’s even begun; patchy fabric stretched over toes rubbing thin on the inside of your shoes, he’ll circle your head like a daisy crown.
To hold the tiny scars on his broad shoulders, traces blemishes like a mine sweeper, would be like orange juice at 40 000 ft. Intimate in a way only TSA agents know how to be, looking for explosives behind the ribcage, to the left.