Old Habits Die Hard

Across a smoky, crowded bar you shouted that I broke your heart. I yelled something back equally sad and hurtful, maybe even found my hands reaching toward your chest to push you away. Over and over we recall the tragic story of us, like the drone of the indifferent voice coming out of a dead telephone line, "...If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again..."

Because in my head there's an airport terminal that flies away those dangerous thoughts every hour on the hour. Off to destinations more habitable. Cruising at thirty-five thousand feet through the mist and fog are those unsettling thoughts. Those tempting notions that someday we'll finally forgive each other for this scar, that wound, those heartbreaks. That we will one day stop fighting the pull of something we can't control.

And I count on it every night, that vital red eye.

Because I know that on my own, I won't be able to hang up that telephone.