This is the worst part of flying...the waiting for take-off. This right here, this is the antithesis to movement. You can stand still but walking out the door is just one thought away. Sitting on an airplane, feeling the engine warming up beneath your feet, knowing that you must stay seated or else you won't go anywhere, THIS is how I feel all the goddamn time.

Happy Censor Time!

Let's make an assumption for the hell of it. He is on the way to this airport with her and soon they will be in this exact situation. Together. I will never come out and tell him how much this fucking hurts. I am strong, I am independent, blah fucking blah. But I'm not good enough.

I wonder if the nerdy dude next to me will offer me a tissue?

I want to go, I want to go, I want to move, move, move.

The noise under my shoes is changing. My heart is in my throat. I have been up for almost 24 hours (I wanna be sedated). And I wonder if he's thinking of me?

Here we go....

I had planned on doing this in the ATL, but I had more important things to do- from most to least...smoke, coffee, pee. So between the vices and stupid human weaknesses, I lost my chance to put it all down on paper.

Anyway, it's airplane #2 and she's a feisty one. We haven't stopped shaking since take-off and I think I'm the only one not complaining. Then again, I was a little unnerved when boarding. It seems there's an entire flock of high school students going to Buffalo and, if I remember correctly, God really fucking hates high school students. Or at least that's how I felt in school. OK, nevermind this banal shit I'm wasting ink on.

This whole trip is partly about him and me and me and him. He was in the car when I saw that plane and felt my heart skip a beat. We were on our way home from Cocoa Beach and I could still smell him on my clothes. I felt that skip and I knew I was going to get out of there. Not even two weeks later and here I am. A feisty airplane and this is how I go.

The hours spent without sleep totaled 43. And closing my eyes was a decision. It's 60 some degrees outside and I'm sitting on the cement block by the bridge.

This bridge was built in the late 1800s and moved here in 1920. It said it would keep in touch with you but the postage rates are just so high nowadays. All apologies.

I'm thinking about time and looking at how worn the wood is...just how many feet walked across and just where did they finally rest? I wish I knew.

I'm actually a little worried about going back to FLA (note the absence of the word "home"). You see, he has never been here. We never sat on this block, sharing cigarettes and I know for sure that he did not help in wearing the boards down. But the other place.... I'll go there and some part of him will remain. I'll go there and be reminded.

You know, I'm not even sure who I am talking about. Yeah, OK. I do know.

And so do you.

So I'm leaving on a jet plane and there are no bars open in the airport right now. I don't even think there's a smoking room. Fucking bummer, right? Now I get to pass the time by reading or writing, not sucking down alcohol/nicotine.

God, I hope I cry.

Anyway, I'm not really sure how I feel knowing that the forthcoming motion will take me back to the swamp. I mean, shit, this is technically action, right? Except it's just going to end where I left off. Funny how that works, huh?

Yeah. I'm going to step off that plane and get in the car and fall right back into that boring, still life of mine. Well, OK, so my life as a whole is OK. Good, even. But him...I know nothing has changed despite me pretending that physical movement can jumpstart emotional movement.

Oh, I don't know. I honestly and truly don't.

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