It’s no use, running through airports, hoping to catch a flight you’ve already missed. All that would be waiting, is half finished sentences and too much thinking about what you should and shouldn’t say.
That’s the problem with always leaving, you end up forgetting how to start things, and only ever remember how they end.
Like when you’re on the bed and you’re telling each other, that it doesn’t matter, but it really does. You don’t dare to ask, but you do. ‘Have you slept with anybody else?’ While the question hangs there - for a second, all the miles you just put behind you, wedge themselves between you again - and you might be touching, fingers brushing on cheekbones, eyes searching eyelids, combing over eyebrows and foreheads, running into hairlines, hoping to get lost before the answer finds you.
It’s impossible to talk anymore, when all you want to say is somehow wrong, and the only questions you can ask are the ones you never want to hear the truthful answer to. The answer will always be yes, to all the careful questions you push out into the open sea, hoping they will get lost and swallowed by the waves. Like, ‘Have you stopped loving me?’
I will come back when you change your mind.