Picture Imperfect

There are these snapshots of you. Like pictures hanging in a gallery. Leaning against the door-frame, with a bouquet in your hand, a sheepish grin plastered across your face. Posing by the window with the light of the Sun coruscating off the water and rippling on your torso. At the airport, with a gift behind your back, anxiously scanning the arrivals gate for me to appear.

So many airport scenes. Across so many places. Which is rather relevant because so much of this has been arriving and leaving. In a sense we are still standing at the airport, not quite sure who has left and who has arrived. But we stand here, like passengers who have been traveling for a long time. Across time zones, across mindscapes, across countries we have never visited.

And then there is the snapshot of you leaving. Walking into the elevators, your back turned to me not looking back even when the door shuts behind you.