The Vast Intricacies In A Modern Airport

By Anshuman Das

I

the peculiarity of travelling alone, 

the tactful glances during

security check-ins,

smiling at wounded souls, startled faces

people smile back? 

The breath of the crowd,

a father and son, a mother and her mother,

the starving cups of overpriced coffee,

gentle dreams of six pence and you. 

child crying, the lights on the ceiling, greyer than the sky of England

A cup of 

instant noodles, lips smacking, an armada of unread books 

ready to face abandonment at home. 

The enormous amount of eyes, the unintelligible number of stories. 

Hopeful boyfriends

Exit wounds.  

Seeing you in my eyes, as there’s no other way. 

The shadows casted by various nondescript items. 

How come shadows interest me more than the real thing? 

II

Could the real thing be the one being described, by its shadow? 

Remove its shadow, no 

tonal variation, 

uninteresting. 

Feeling like an individual with your own story, pretending that 

people look at you as you frantically sketch 

substandard sightings with a sea green pencil. 

Smiling at a crying child. 

Frowning at a smiling child, 

those are rare. 

Thoughts of you frequent my airport of thoughts, they never miss their flights. 

III

When I have rings around my eyes, nondescript, 

Illegible handwriting, maybe I will smile thinking.

As the fox comes out of 

the woods, it is invisible, 

it is somewhere locked away in a yellow sketch book where

nothing is happening. 

IV 

Will the stars come out 

tonight? Aisle seats

prevent your view 

but do they really? 

Are you stuck?

do I feel low? 

I feel good travelling alone. 

Pretences for myself, 

frenzied hair, rosy smile and red cheeks. 

Yet another passenger going towards you boards the flight. 

V

So many thoughts of

you. 

the feel of your skin, the air that you breathe out, the air that I 

breathe in. 

the strands of hair which have left you and attached themselves to me.

The strands of hair that join me, the smell which is lost, you’re so far away. 

Aerials. 

Back to people’s faces, smiles, cries, 

tears. 

Shadows. 

Your shadow. 

A man beside me 

Makes a tissue paper boat and 

unfolds it again. 

Will it ever float? 

the air hostess moving, 

smooth carts and glasses of water. 

The woman beside me and her cough coloured cutting machine. 

My mind’s in aerials. 

Travelling alone, falling down with a plan. 

I hope I land safely.

By Anshuman Das