I meet you again at the airport arrivals hall. I refuse to return to physical tenderness.

I hear your laugh cross the airport arrivals hall before I see you.

I carry coffee cooling between my hands between us when our eyes meet.

I see a baggage tag resting in your palm.

I understand that I need touch to tell the truth.

I remain beside you as the board shows your next flight leaving before sunrise.

I ask the smallest question with the largest history.

I see your fingers tighten around a baggage tag.

I remember your thumb tracing calm into my wrist.

I resent the body for keeping what the future refused.

I place physical tenderness between us and ask you not to soften it.

I watch apology gather behind your teeth.

I touch a baggage tag to keep my hands from reaching for you.

I follow your words until they reach what you decided.

I understand the wound when your hand promises what your life cannot.

I breathe through the second that rearranges us.

I move toward the taxi line because the room has become too small.

I freeze as your palm finds the center of my back.

I let our foreheads nearly touch.

I hold still while your final words gather.

I reach for you inside the airport arrivals hall, but your hand promises what your life cannot.