I'm leaving today.
Packing up my things to traverse the East coast on a jetliner,
Never looking back.
And when I hit the tarmac and sneak glimpses at the vast cityscape,
How will you follow me here?
Through letters penned in poignant, black ink,
Or faraway midnight pillow talks that last through the bismuth rising of the sun?
Through a crumpled map and a hand-me-down car,
Or plane tickets clutched tightly to your chest?
Or will you not follow me at all?
Maybe you will write me off for naught, or better yet,
A figment of the imagination.
'Just a someone I know through someone I used to know.'
And I'll walk the bridge each night,
Landing myself in Brooklyn by nightfall,
And I'll scour every gallery, bookshelf, crevice.
And I'll wonder why there isn't a trace of you here.