Sky

Can you see me?

I ponder this as I watch you across the gate. Two hundred people mill around like cattle. Pacing, tense as they wait for their turn to be called, their seat waiting.

I sit and watch you.

—

A sea of suits at this time of day. The stripes marking the mediocre. The elite wear deep navy and mix fabrics. The shoes show age. The polished and professional from the perfunctory and the passable.

Your shoes are brown.

Bags of every description litter the aisles and the seats. The more you have, the less you have here.

They call for business.

We don’t move, you and me.

I sit and watch you.

—

You look tired. Dark eyes and dark lines. Salt and pepper framing a portrait of a long day.

You stare at your phone, at the ground, at the queue. Absent mind and frozen body. Paused while loading.

They call the next group.

You move.

I sit and watch you.

—

You shuffle with the crowd. Black bag spilling with white words. A paper trail of questions and quandaries locked in leather.

Your hands are pale. Long fingers fondle flimsy passes and fix broken passport cases.

I sit and watch you.

—

I imagine those fingers on soft skin. Long drawn out seduction lost to short sighted sex. Cramped spaces and muffled cries.

Your shirt damp with perspiration. Dark eyes alive with chemical light.

I sit and watch you.

—

My fingers slide through the twilight and the plane rises. Your world within my world in the sky.

You are in my hands now.

I sit and watch you.