They hold on here longer than anywhere. I have been through a thousand rooms today and nowhere do they grip like this, one body into another, arms crossed behind backs like they are trying to press the shape of each other into memory. I slip between them, of course, I cannot help it, I go through the half-inch of nothing they have left and they shiver and don't know why.
I lifted the loose hair off her neck while she said something into his shoulder. I carried it, the words, out the sliding doors and past the taxis, and I have already forgotten them, I forget everything, that is the whole of what I am. He smelled of coffee and the cold he walked in with, and now she will smell of it too for an hour, and then that will go the way of everything.
I don't understand the waiting they do. He goes down the long tube into the roaring thing and she stands at the glass, still, still, a still creature at a wall, watching a place he is no longer in. They believe standing there keeps some thread. They believe if they don't move they haven't let go.
I don't know how to stay. I have never once managed it. I touched her cheek where the wet was and I took a little of the salt of it with me,
and I am already out over the runway, and the field past it, and I have set her down somewhere she will never find, and I am gone, I am gone, I am somewhere else being someone else's leaving.