I’m in transit at Sharjah airport.
I’m failing to follow a
conversation
taking place in Russian.
Air Arabia
throws me onto Kazakhstan
in 10 hours.
If I understood Russian
as poorly
as I understand why I run
from love,
I would switch from
unease about Kazakhstan
to total alarm.
Adelaide,
as I collapse
upon the airport’s icy
tiles
at 3am,
you are waking to the
embrace of a Sunday morning
I can yet recall.
As you rise from your
bed, Adelaide,
look over to see me
getting into mine
and, if you could,
take a moment to tuck me
in.
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