I didn't send it

I am at the gate. My bag is by my feet. The plane goes at eleven twenty. I still have time.

There is a print in my jacket pocket. It is warm from my hand. I keep holding it.

I wrote my dad at two in the morning. I did not send it. The words are still in my phone. They are too true. If I send them he will know I miss him. And I can never take it back.

Gonçalo wrote to me. I am not answering. If I answer I pick a door.

I do not know if I am going home or going far. They feel the same when you are scared.

The coffee is bad. My hands feel cold. The prints are in two boxes in Joburg. A year of my life in boxes.

I wish someone would just tell me which way to go. But I will not ask. I never ask anyone.