Like John David himself, our relationship was complex. He was a force of nature, capable of sudden, meteoric shifts—sometimes destructive, sometimes breathtakingly beautiful, like a sunset casting a perfect palette of blues, reds, and purples. When I met him, I was a frayed, splintered wooden spoon. Seven years later, he had reshaped me into a finely crafted steak knife.

I feel as if I am waking up from a dream. A long and lucid dream.

Even amongst the wreckage, this remains unscathed.

The airport itself is just winding down… filled mostly with weary souls - returning from their respective destinations. There’s something peaceful, sometimes magical, about flying through the night. Travelers pass me by… moving the opposite direction. Their bodies contorted to accommodate their literal luggage, which oddly, only seem to accentuate their figurative baggage. Lines are darkened across their faces, as if drawn by a child on an etch-a- sketch… or traced over with graphite.

What a strange, beautiful trip. The thinning of altitude, the crispness of air… the manifestations of dreams, previously limited by inexperience.

Dispersed unevenly across moments of tension, anger, even hate… fulfillment and maturity manage to cast their glow.

Light. Strings of light…. stretching, yearning… in transit. Shining, bringing life, vessels sprung from energy… now conscious.

Momentum continues. And what feels like time, is really the full formation of our being… another step on a journey of something bigger,

I sit here most evenings… though largely un-noticed. I’m an introvert, dressed in the costume of an extrovert. I want a connection, but I’m happier in my space… more comfortable. I’m content to sit here, working my way toward the bottom of the glass…

‘Take aim’, she says.

Easy if you have a target, I think. My smirk morphs into a quick puff of laughter, while the eyes roll up and away… followed by a quick nod indicating agreement. My sarcasm relayed in full.