Transience romantic

I want to live nomadically across the gates at Newark Airport

I’ll sleep on charging stations under intercoms like crib mobiles

I’ll give a name to every Boeing and a marigold to every pilot

I’ll give them squeezing hugs and every time I’ll thank them kindly

I never want to stop feeling like I’m going somewhere

I want to watch the sunrise every morning from those tall glass panes

I always want to feel that I’ll be ready, still, to fly away —

i'm dreaming of the day i start daydreaming in the present day

of things that have a future in my future, of anything that halves the anchor

that pins me to the past, and to the ground. heart face down.

nose in dirt. breath is short. ribs are cracked, and closure’s stuck in purgatory

like all the long dead things that i still ventilate subconsciously

and when i die, will i start dreaming before or after i stop breathing?

will i find the things i lost among the things i killed?

     you, and i (separately)    and          you and i (together)

i never thought i’d die a killer until i thought i’d die without you

without you, i’ve been ambling, through love and life and liminal spaces

call me too nostalgic, call me manic, call me ambulances,

call me back or call your bluff, i hate the way that you play poker:

with your cold feet and your hot head,

wound the boundaries, then they s

            n

                     a

I’m snapping back to consciousness from napping on a moving walkway

I never want to stop feeling like I’ve got somewhere to be

I never wanted to stop loving all the people who stopped loving me

but in my warmth, I gave them reasons, now I’m mourning in my dreams and

at each terminal, chafing to conveyors every afternoon inside the airport

hoping that the travelers remember me after their flights

for my little piece of memory to carry farther than I’ll ever go

I’ll never know if being stuck in transit means I'll never plant my feet on greener grass

I've been so sowed inside the dirt that I forgot the color of my shoes

I've been so used to picking marigolds, I'm afraid that I've become one,

or maybe it’s nervous hope,

that someday I will find myself plucked from the ground

and tucked inside a pilot’s shirt pocket, over every flight on every day

feel my petals buzz like eardrums popped and I’ll be ready, still, to fly away