The Terminal Clock Reads No Time

The gate is painted cinder block, no number etched into the green enamel. A child’s drawing rests on the bench, a yellow crayon outline of the porch columns, the exact placement of the bay window. I touch it. My hand weighs the density of your hand, the specific bone structure of your wrist, a deep ache settling into my metacarpals. The airport air smells of ozone and old coffee, and the floor tile is cool beneath my shoes. I turn to the gate edge. You stand there, facing a crowd of muted khaki coats, and I watch the way your shoulders settle, the specific tension in your neck. I reach across the divide. My fingertips meet the air where your jacket hangs open. I pull back, the wrong weight making my wrist ache with an unfamiliar bone ache. We do not speak. The terminal fluorescent lights buzz a sound that has no source.