Our Descent

It was three days after another New York bombing and the first time you didn’t kiss me goodbye. Give wishes for a safe flight, and to me it was clear— if it weren’t for the others, you’d will that plane to crash from pregnant clouds. How neat, how tidy, how perfect it would all be. Nobody would know the coldness of the morning, how you refused to even pretend to hear me. How it was your mother I touched last. Who would know how much I drank at the airport bar, that I worried the weight I’d put on...

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