Passenger's Log

Passenger’s log 04/01/15
You appeared on my doorstep like someone who needed a rescue. Like a ship approaching a foggy shoreline. You wanted me to be your lighthouse, but your breath put out the only candle I had left with the first words you spoke. We both felt the storm coming, your touch more closely resembling electric lightning than the thunderheads on the horizon.


Passenger’s log 18/02/15
We’ve exchanged more goodbyes than I can keep track of, and I’ll never forget the way you always made sure to say “take care” as you were leaving. Sometimes I wonder if it was intended as a wish or a warning, I wonder if you were talking to me or yourself.


Passenger’s log 21/03/15
The weather becomes increasingly closer to television static with each day that we’re apart. White noise fills the holes in old conversations, blending together unanswered questions and half-voiced accusations and out of focus memories. They’re calling this the storm of the century. I keep having this dream where I can see the rain but I can’t hear it.


Passenger’s log 07/04/15
The violin player in my ribcage has gone quiet. My heartbeat packed it’s bags and left the same day you did, taking every other sound with it. You always told me that there are infinitely more poems written about going home than people who actually make it there, tell me why you couldn’t wait for the next flight.


Passenger’s log 25/05/15
Silence broken like dropped luggage, spilling sundresses laced with cracked ribs. A pretty flight attendant smiles through bloody teeth, saying “brace for impact” over and over and over. Didn’t anyone ever tell you to secure your own mask before helping others?