My Mouth Is A Traitor (It Keeps Looking For You)

I fell asleep on the plane ride home
and thought about telling you.

Wondered if you’d be proud.
My phobia finally settled,
though I can’t take full credit.
Have to applaud Ativan.

I used to cry during turbulence on flights to you.
But I’d settle, collect myself, grab the nearest arm.
Sorry, Man In White for squeezing your hand.

It was worth it to know I was reaching you.
I looked fear directly in the eye from 30,000 miles
because it meant in enough hours, I’d be kissing you.

I’m sorry. No,
I’m not.
I’m supposed to stop writing to you, about you,
screaming into the void that it hasn’t stopped for me.
I’m sorry, it stopped for you.
I’m sorry, you wish it stopped for me too.

But my mouth is a traitor and she’s yelling your name upon arrival.
I’m in LaGuardia Airport and my fingers are trying to text you.
I don’t think they remember the number,
but they’re stubborn.

They’ll still try.

I kiss a boy who tastes like potential. He is kind and funny, knows all my favorite songs. I go to the bathroom and avoid looking in the mirror.

I do not want my mouth to betray me again.
I do not want her to remind me he isn’t you.

None of them are you.

I am searching for someone and each one proves to be one thing for sure.
None of them are you.