Nonstop to SFO

 We hugged, kissed, hugged more at the security gate,
at first self-consciously, then desperately, shedding care for
anything else. Backed away at last, echoing hollow laughs
from weary smiles that knew the future,
croaking our final nothings in matching hollow tones
from deflated chests. You turned and headed through.
I turned and walked away. I'll never forget your ponytail,
normally bouncy and free, swinging limp in your somber recessional.
I rounded the corner and it hit me you were gone and I reached for the wall
slack-jawed and blind. Gone. Gone gone gone gone gone
and all the signs mocked me on the way back
"Terminals A1-A18 —>. A is for absconds with your heart"
"<— Terminals B8-B36. B is for Boston and not for California"
"Terminals C1-C14 —>. C is for California, you should know it's very far"
"<— Terminals D16-D24. D is the sum distance of every impossible mile
between her and you and there aren't enough letters in the alphabet
for each one, you know"

I took the train back home, listless. I must have looked
just like an oblivious local, except I was slightly green and
had clearly been kicked in the gut. I rode it one stop too far
on purpose so I could walk dazed down Mass Ave
with the absent automation which follows the absoluteness of someone
flying far away forever, turning the city which once was boundless opportunities
into another crowded, tall, overbearing region too full of not-you.