postcard from the dead

I waited for you
on the airlanes
you moving
I still

your flight ended early
where a mountain began

I’ll never not be waiting

prayed words just
faint stains on fading satin
sealed in airless coffins
of memory

the only truth
to be read in diaries is
the yellowing of their pages

whereon and on
I run through this terminal
past all the gates all closed

still thinking I see you
through the crowd
then rushing up
reaching for your shoulder
and being horrified each time
a stranger turns around