Left Behind at LaGuardia Airport

     A pair of aviator sunglasses. A Notre Dame sweatshirt. A dull razor. Tiny embroidery scissors. One black stiletto. Maps you never got to use. A torn stuffed lamb missing an eye. A half empty water bottle. A bag of trail mix. Your friend waiting outside the gate to hug you one last time. The memory of seagulls on the Staten Island ferry, fighting over scraps. Shower gel. An unfinished love poem. Loudspeakers canceling flights. Movies you already watched on Hulu. A bottle of Smirnoff from the mini bar. Boredom. A cheap pair of noise cancelling headphones. A four-ounce can of bug spray that didn’t make it past security. An expired credit card. Your blue pills. Receipts that didn’t need to be saved. A flyer for free fries with the purchase of a burger. The memory of Times Square – not gritty like you thought – but filled with men in Elmo costumes. Lukewarm coffee. The toddler who kept screaming for his mother. Numbers disappearing off the board the second you look down. The man you met on 42nd Street. The fear of strangers. Fatigue. The memory of going someplace new and being disappointed. Fingerprints and sunscreen residue on the cover of that book not purchased. The story on the page after the one you stopped reading. A half-eaten cookie that had dairy in it after all. The smell of jet fuel. Perfume samples on paper slips. The chocolate kiss on your pillow. The man you met at that bar on Eighth Avenue. An unnamed longing. The knowledge that wherever you go, there you are. (This thought you don’t leave behind but tuck in the inside pocket of your knapsack). The postcard you never mailed. The wave meant for someone else. Tourists speaking languages you can’t understand. The memory of all those people, walking past each other, never making eye contact. The names of strangers after their faces get filed away as new characters in future dreams. The beauty of the runway lights, shimmering at dusk, a silver trail getting fainter as you glide.