what it is like to travel with you

What it is like to travel with you. It is like
a lot of bees far away quietly not coming near me.
I imagine they are making honey. And not stinging.
Perhaps they are even happier than normal. I am.

What it is like. It is like a large drainpipe filled
with marshmallows. I get to swim in it, but it is still
dark and nice and warm, unlike previous situations.
No drowning is allowed. It’s more like floating.

What it is like with you in an airport. In an airport
you are very funny, which is not to say you aren’t
outside an airport, but you’re kind of funnier in one.
I don’t know why. Work on that.

You made me break my shoe in the airport, and
instead of hitting you with my stone-filled backpack,
I laughed until I wheezed. Also, you have a nice butt
that I watched while I limped behind, heel dangling.

What it is like with you: your dot-dash cadence before
telling a joke, your inability to let me wear earplugs
without poking at them, your magazine dog-earing
habits, your seagreen eyes. Hey, that’s my magazine.

I laid down on the airport carpet and curled
my head to your stomach. We recited along with
the slot-machines, “Wheel! Of! Fortune!” I hate
that show but now I love those words. Damn it.

Maybe I just love the bubbly rush I felt when
you scrawled in my little notebook. Or the light
kiss on my forehead I woke up to, right before
you poked my earplug and I slugged your arm.

About Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted, a/k/a cygnoir, does stuff with words. Her favourite things to do with words are keeping this diary, writing stories, and organising information. She lives in Edinburgh with her husband, two cats, a few gadgets, several fountain pens, and many books.

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