Some things that take too long:

Plane rides.

That transient moment between being somewhere and then being somewhere else. How can a tin can with a tight squeeze take me from vibrant life, into a grey tunnel, coughing, sneezing, snoring, scratching my back, stretching my limbs, pushing me out; here… there.

Personal growth.

Am I there yet? Am I there yet? I can see it, far off at the end of this road, there’s a speck of light. Every step I take it grows a little bigger. Comparing my past self to my self right now, I’m honestly the same person, I could make the same exact choices in an instant, and yet somehow I’ve revolved around the sun for a couple thousand more minutes than before. I’m no physicist but, how the heck is that possible? 

Time snakes down the drain. Please remember we’re     in a drought.

The future.

Constantly living in a state between here and there, what that looks like is impossible to say, but I want it, and at the same time I don’t. Can’t things just stay like this, for a little while? I’m fine with the grey tunnel, the perennial tight squeeze. My eyes haven’t felt clear in a while, though.

Sitting at a red light when I have somewhere to be.

Let’s face it, even when I don’t have anywhere to be, it takes too damn long. When I’m stuck on a red, why do I believe my right of way matters more than the other cars who got blessed with green? And then when I finally get the green, it’s not even a passing thought. When will it turn?

When you look at me and don’t tell me exactly what you’re thinking.

I see the thought flash beneath your eyes, even though it’s quick, it’s detectable. I see it like a Koi fish sneaking below the undulating pond.I want you to tell me what it is; the key for what you want from me. But it could be weeks until you do.

Getting over you. 

It’s like smoke from a cigarette. At first it’s thick, sharp, almost opaque in consistency, I cough and wheeze you from my lungs. Then it gets easier to breathe through it, but it’s still there. The smoke is wispy now, trailing off down the pathway, carried away through light and air, but it’s still fucking there. I can see it even now, hanging in the air, I can smell it on my clothes. I reek of it. I haven’t smoked a cigarette in a year.

Saying sorry. 

When it comes to the light stuff; a bump on the shoulder, the accidental last bite, the episode you watched that we said we’d watch together, it’s easy. That comes fast. It’s that deeply recessed moment when you left me in the dark, made me feel unwanted, under-appreciated, taken for granted, long forgotten. It’s that time I chose not to take you with me, seeing your tears well up but never fall, feeling your back muscles tense under my fingers at the thought. These words may never come.

Realizing what I have is enough.

It’s simple, really. Easier said than done as they always say. The hammer of this lesson pounds Play-doh into my open wound, but it doesn’t stick. Until one day it does, until I look around and wipe the film from my eyes, pull down the oval plastic window shade. The wheels are down. I’m here, sitting on the runway.