The Velocity of Longing

I always wondered if the wind at this altitude carried memories. Standing here, with my oversized cardigan clinging to me like a ghost of your embrace, I watch another silver bird slice through the violet haze of dusk.
You left three years ago on an evening just as quiet as this one—the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty, but heavy with things unsaid. We had promised each other letters written in ink and patience woven into time. But city lights have a way of blurring horizons; I became accustomed to your voice through digital echoes rather than the warmth of skin against skin.
As this plane ascends, I feel an invisible thread tighten between my chest and wherever you are now. It is a delicate torture—this modern love that keeps us connected but never quite touching. My hair dances in the slipstream of departing journeys, smelling faintly of rain and old bookstores, just as we used to.
I look up not to see where it goes, but to remember how it felt when you whispered into my neck: 'Wait for me until the world feels small again.'
The roar fades into a hum. I close my eyes and let the twilight wash over me, imagining your hand sliding slowly beneath the wool of my cardigan, tracing lines on my spine that only you know by heart. In this suspended moment between departure and arrival, we are finally together—somewhere in the vast, blue space where time ceases to matter.

Editor: South Wind