Terminal E

The sun was just about to break the horizon that morning.
We were about 35,000 feet in the air,
at about 7am on a Saturday,
somewhere over, what I can only imagine,
was the French countryside.
(Forgive the lack of details,
I had been pounding wine
since about 4am.)

I was officially 36.

I noticed a set of jet trails just below us
and it only took a few minutes
until we caught up.
You know, they call them contrails,
those white cloud streams.
Sure, they’re filled with gases and poisons,
but all it takes is something
as simple as water vapor
to make them noticeable.

That was the beautiful part of the birthday.
The weird part happened earlier.

In Dallas, we entered Terminal E
and I felt a familiar sucker-punch
when I noticed the newsstand
where we had our first kiss.
That was two years ago.
Thanks a lot Terminal E,
you duplicitous shitbox.

Later, on the plane,
I thought about flushing the heartache
of seeing you with someone else
and letting that shit rain on you
instead of me.

But I loved you too much once
to not feel the guilt.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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