Adelaide, South Australia, Australia
Departure, kissing goodbye, a hug, a tear and he’s disappearing behind the glass screen. You follow him with your eyes for as long as you can. You follow the back of his head, the suitcase and his hand that is already holding the mobile phone. Already.
Who is he calling? It’s not you. Who?
His back and the hand with the phone close to his cheek, close to his hair, with the scent of shampoo and aftershave and his teeth when smiling, when speaking, when telling you things, special things, just to you.
He’s talking with someone that isn’t you, someone that may be waiting for him when he arrives, someone who will smile back, will hold him briefly or for long moments, taking him in, the scent, the dampness of his hair, the warmth of his skin. . . and this won’t be you.
You stop this nonsense and grab your phone to punch in his number. Your hand halts mid air. No, you will wait, he will call. You know he will. He promised.
You swipe the screen instead.
The screen saver . . . and you breathe deep, taking him in.
His smiling face, he’s yours, he’s real.
a blank canvas awaits
sun, moon, heart