The Boy on the Plane
I was given 16 hours to fall in and out of love with the boy in 72D.
He had the smile of truth, the eyes of wisdom, the skin of grace, and the warmth of desire.
When we introduced ourselves, he said my name as if it was his first word.
The taste of his name was similar to that of rain, the sound of his name was that of mist, the look of his name was that of gold.
He shook my hand at our introduction, and the simple grasp of his hands enough to make me believe that I had held this same being before.
I had never been one for consistent eye contact in intimate conversations, especially in crowded spaces, but 13,000 feet in the airing with the intensity in this boys gaze, I didn't want to even blink.
He offered me his stories so I heard. He offered me his music so I listened. He offered me his hand so I held.
He asked me questions most people 13,000 feet in the air and existing on minimal sleep wouldn't dare to ask. But I answered with more honesty in my mouth than I had tasted in months.
Everything I would ramble on about, he would repeat back to me, just to make sure he didn't miss a single detail. And he never did.
But him repeating my stories back to me felt like hearing them for the first time as if they happened to someone else.
And perhaps they did. And perhaps I left her on the plane.