You know that as soon as they walk through airport security your relationship is over. They're standing at the terminal with their guitar over one shoulder and their ill-fitting henley pulled askew by their heavy lacrosse bag. They ask you not to cry until they're gone and you nod because that comfort is all you have left to give them. You bring one palm to their cheek and the other flat against their sternum and press your lips against theirs for the last time. They taste like cigarettes and smell like your lavender shampoo. Afterwards, you cry silently on the subway, too stunned to sit down or hold yourself together.
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