I find letting go inside the airport arrivals hall. I ask the question I kept postponing.

I see you inside the airport arrivals hall before I prepare my face.

I notice coffee cooling between my hands clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a baggage tag before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need to close the door without hating you.

I stay as the board shows your next flight leaving before sunrise.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the taxi line instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of letting go.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a baggage tag beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that you ask me to keep one key.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the taxi line with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside the airport arrivals hall, but you ask me to keep one key.