Depart, Apart

On the day before you left for Venice

you gave me a dry, pressed rose,

rubbing it up against my palms,

hoping the last drabs of fragrance

would permeate my skin in your absence.

You have always, at least to me,

been a flower placed in my own garden,

with your precious neck peaking up

out of the warm soil, smiling when the sun

beckoned you lightly from the window.

I think of you in economy seating

waiting for the creaky wheels of

the stewardess cart, your eyes

searching for that green can of

ginger ale to ease your uneasy stomach.

You’re parallel with the birds that tweet,

rumoring to one another that there is

indeed a brilliance to the skies today,

that the air is a little crisper and

heaven feels all the more closer.

You walk the streets of a bridge-linked city,

your fingers tasting the wood railings.

When you reach those slender hands

into your pocket for the train schedule,

picture me at every station, waiting.