Winding Back

It's six months since you saw him off
drank coffee while he tarried in departures
watched him walk across the tarmac of the runway
watched from the carpark as his plane taxied
turned and roared into the sky
watched it out of sight a curve of trail
a glint in the rising sun.

Someone tells you they remember
when they dropped you off somewhere
drove away window down music blasting
knowing they wouldn't see you ever.

But you want him back and feel him winding
back to you, thread on a reel, a caught fish
or wool twisting hand to hand into a ball.
You feel it rise, the tightening of love
across a continent, snagging when you bend
to get the milk, catching in your throat
when you find you're looking at the sky.
Waiting.