poshlost

You remind me of the harvest moon tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets till spring, of catching every breath in crystals on the same forgotten docks, Where gravity knots my tendons into rope, my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes into searchlights scanning the horizon for the first ship that leads to you.

You remind me of the harvest moon tugging the shore from beneath my feet, of rowing out to sea in winter with empty nets till spring, of catching every breath in crystals on the same forgotten docks, Where gravity knots my tendons into rope, my teeth into chalk and ash, and my eyes into searchlights scanning the horizon for the first ship that leads to you.

At the boarding gate, the man appears almost lost in a crowd of passengers, periodically bumping into a shawled grandmother or a businessman on the phone and apologizing profusely. As the queue thins, he reaches into a tattered jacket pocket, pulls out a torn ticket, and begins folding and unfolding it along a familiar crease. The last two passengers cross the gate, and he stops to stare at the flight attendant, all red nail polish and shine and starch like a wax statue carved out of the sky. "Your ticket?" But her voice is nervous, almost girlish. It makes him feel more at ease among the strangers pressing in. Still, he scrambles to give