I had missed my flight. You waited for me and spent the next hour - as much time as you could - with me. You slept uncomfortably next to me in that car. You said it was such a long hour; I felt like it had only been five minutes.
I felt like I was leaving home, again, against my will once more. You held me the night before, telling me I can always come back (little did I know I'd be coming home to you after less than a year), but it didn't help. I would be without you and that's all that mattered to me. I've always had my priorities out of line. Thank the gods you don't mind.
You held me so tightly, reluctant to let me go. And then you sent me off on that plane, a silver chain around my wrist, telling me to remember we're linked together now. Hoping the symbolism would get me through. And it did, for a while, until the chain snapped when I accidentally caught it on the back of my chair.
I spent the entire morning crying and dozing, dreaming of the two weeks that we had, of the week we had a few months previous to this. I spent the morning staring out at the tarmac, at the airplane that would take me away from you. Once inside the airplane I stared at the mountains surrounding the entire area. I love mountains, I love you, I want to come back and be able to stay with you.
And so soon enough I will be back, I will stay. I will spend nights with you, keeping you close and hoping that I do not have to leave again.