The Departure Lounge

I like airports, don't know why, but I like airports, despite my having to lug around my bike gear every time (almost) I'm in one of them. Probably because that means I'm on a trip to somewhere else - to be on the road for example - the unknown is expecting me, and that idea excites me. Or also perhaps because I like the international air, to be around people from different countries, talking in alien tongues.

My mind then wanders to the departure lounge, and there, surprisingly, I thought about you. It was bittersweet. While we walked on the deserted streets, I told you about the full moon. Then we were lying next to each other in the camouflage of the night, I was happy. But now you are so far away from me, and in about one month's time we will be in different continents. The distance doesn't shorten the pain, it poisons me, and is killing me.

Why did this doggone departure lounge make me think about you? Why? Why is it no matter what I do, where I go, laughing and crying, awake and asleep, thinking and idling, I think about you, see you and hear you? That was where you came from, and where I'll be heading. The prospect of not seeing you anymore terrifies me, and I dread the day of my stepping into that air conditioned room. It's a fear that stifles, a pain that finds no solace.