I still remember you whenever I see planes dotting the sky. Maybe because the anchor of regret still wrings my neck hostage, a chain to a locket of impossibility, or a scarlet letter. Scarlet for dried bleeding, not Catholic shame. You see, I've always fallen clueless for men already tied to another. I guess it's my fourth to count that I started to examine my skin one afternoon before shower. Maybe an epithelial cell could answer the misfortune. You were the first domino to fall and create the wave. I should have loathed you but I guess there's so much peace in quiet resignation. Airplanes. You. Incredible, right? I do not know either.
I was in a daze the night when you said you were already at the airport. I wore two left shoes. One yearned the final bid. The other, a safe distance. None of them were right. But an injured person owes himself a sense of justice, and heaps of pride. Until some memento mori scattered in the metropolis reminds him that the world was built on skewed encounters, illumined by asymmetrical smiles.
Tickets to freedom may be constructive, I guess. Constructive, and an afterthought. We belong to lands whose shores did not even kiss during Pangaea.