come, stay

I walked out of the terminal, and you weren’t there.

I told you not to come. I told you there were delays. I said immigration was a mess. I said not to worry.

“I’ll take a cab home.”

You were never supposed to be there, but I thought you might be. Outside. I don’t know why. Wishful thinking.

The rain had just stopped. I could smell the petrichor. My clothes felt damp, despite being dry. I looked for an attendant. He’d call a taxi.

I waited. For the taxi, of course. But for you, as well. I kept seeing you in your maroon sweater, driving up in your gray beater, beckoning me in. The warmth of your hands, the touch of your lips, the smell of home. A chimera.

Why did I tell you not to come, if all I ever wanted was for you to be there? Outside. Waiting for me.

I told you not to come, so you didn’t come. I told you to leave, so you left.

I wish someone would come. I wish someone would stay.


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