By Kathleen Pastrana
All the airports in the world
have seen enough wretchedness.
Steel trolleys roll with the weight
of tears and fears shoved
in a spinner suitcase
while a machine turns a blind eye
on bottled residual heartaches
stashed in a carry-on,
zeroing in on grudges
too grand and heavy to place on a lap.
You sit alone on a metallic tandem chair
and wonder why certain goodbyes
annihilate;
some partings happen prematurely,
sometimes permanently,
and the worst kinds often occur in silence:
the equivocal embrace,
phones in pockets trembling unrestrained,
messages left at Seen,
unrequited pining that breaks skin.
You sort out your emotions
on a conveyor belt of whims,
but which one do you root for?
After all, the places you love to visit
never love you in return.
The wheel-worn tiles and tangerine skies
know this.
Yet the ding of the boarding call
spurs you into action,
conscious of every irretrievable
second,
ready as the aircraft that will take you
farther and farther away
from the only paradise you have known.
Kathleen Pastrana lives in Bulacan, Philippines. She collects Toy Story merch and writes poetry in a house she shares with 40 rescued cats. Her poems have appeared/are forthcoming in Quibble Lit, Jake the Mag, Boats Against the Current, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Twitter: @kpastrn and Instagram: @keithpastrana.
