Flying

As I was walking through the airport, I struggled to keep him out of my mind, but his voice kept slipping in. He was telling me about getting off the plane from NYC and actually being glad to see Atlanta, even though the airport was hellish due to spring break starting that day. I was staring at the red kitchen counter, rifling through some drawers, finishing some bread dough with the phone held to my ear. I could picture him saying the words as I wished I could reach for him, to feel him once again. ". . . and it was warm and humid and I said to myself, 'I'm glad I'm home' so I think Atlanta is starting to finally win me over." I smiled, forgetting that he couldn't see me smiling from however many damn miles away. "You still there?" "Yeah, I was just listening." (still smiling, still wishing, still hoping and needing)

I could see him standing in front of me in the airport, looking around, breathing in the Atlanta air and relaxing, just a little. I wished it was real, not a remembered and visualized phone conversation from a few years ago. I hoped against hope that I would find him there so I could throw my arms around him and see him again, if only for a moment. Everything inside me was calling for him, knowing the call would go unanswered.

A short while later as the plane was taking off, I looked out on the city he had grown to love, wondering if he was there, knowing somewhere deep down that he wasn't. He has moved on, from me, and most likely from Atlanta too. My imagined dinner parties and days of laughter by his side will only ever be just that, imagined. Yes, John, I know how to cook now. No, not just putting things in the toaster oven, although I can finally manage that too. No, of course I don't use garlic or onions or peppers, just because I can do some things doesn't mean I'm not still me.

Yeah, I'm still me, sitting here missing you, who is still you. I've never had that kick in the ass you said I needed John. I haven't taken it upon myself to reach that far around to do it. I've wanted to, for months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. When it comes right down to it, I'm afraid. I'm afraid if I try it will end up like almost everything else I've pushed myself to do. Half finished and mostly forgotten, just like me. I wish you were here John, or that I was there, or something that would allow me to see you, to look in your eyes once more and to tell you that you have always meant the world to me. I know I didn't act like it. But, my god, I didn't even know that if I didn't pay my electric bill the service would stop. How could I have known that if I didn't get my feelings for you out in the open then that I might lose the opportunity?

How I wish I hadn't turned you down that last night. How I wish that you had proved me wrong, that you would have touched me while sober. I was waiting for it. I guess maybe I really don't know much about anything, but I could have sworn you loved me as much as I love you, maybe even more since you weren't so fucking clueless.

And the plane flew on, leaving the glimpse of Atlanta behind me, but the memory of John still clung tightly, until I decided I need to let it go, once and for all.