Airport Song

Midway to Logan and I’m anxious at the airport.
Just buy some paper, steal a pen — 99 cents at CVS.
I tucked it in my pocket and then I met you on the train.
I think I scribbled on the first page, I’ll never look at it again.
I’ll bury it in the graveyard of Moleskines and napkins that I’ve picked up and
forgot — bastard thoughts, wasted breath.
As if I’d ever look back to reflect.
As if I’d ever look back once I checked my bag.
It all sounds so sad, to be leaving for good.
I said «it wouldn’t be like that with us.»
You said, «I believe in you.»
I’m not wrong for wanting to feel close or feel nothing, but it’s not easy to
admit that you’re not a good man.
Because I drove you away with empty words about feeling safe and if I wrote
them down, there’s no way I’d find or remember them now.
Because I shouldn’t go back to the past for help anymore.
I should’ve said these words the last time that I saw you at the airport.
And I get nervous when I think about permanence, then I remember that
departures have to land again.
Somewhere.