It’s not a bird I see when a white speck flies past me every two minutes. It’s not a vision of progress that speeds away from a runway Or the product of man’s desire to soar.
I see her face on every sheet of tail-wing spurring upward,
The lines of her eyes on every trail of exhaust on the blue:
That plane carries my runaway,
Who won’t come see me anymore.
Even as I crane my neck, and lift my eyes,
And remember how, with one glance on the shifting
Departure and arrival boards,
With the clacking of letters and numbers switching sides
As swiftly as one plane takes off and another lands,
I still dream of holding her white hands.
Her best photos I’ve snapped are those of her nape,
Her hair short, effortlessly combed,
Her face looking elsewhere, always ahead,
Her eyes never turning towards me instead.
She’s gone with a presence—
The residual air that points to where she’d escaped.
Each form of approval deters her no end:
A passport in her hand
With a visa to leave,
And a boarding pass torn in twain,
While the tailwinds from the North
Push her forth, faster and sooner
Without my consent.