Seats assigned.

Plans in place.

Nothing left to do but wait.

Nine…
     fucking…
             days.

Single digits
    should grant solace,
    should be a comfort—

    but isn't 9 the highest single-digit number?

    Figures.

Not forever,
    but too long.

Too many mornings,
    too many nights,

    too much space between now and then.

The calendar stares back at me,
    unmoved,
    unimpressed.

No skipping ahead,
   no fast-forward button.

Only time,
   dragging
           its
              feet.

I check my email—
    the flight’s still there.
    (of course it is)

As if it might have vanished,
As if it might have changed
         without telling me.

It hasn’t.

It won’t.

It’s booked.

Everything is set,
        except me.

I’m restless,
   half here,
   half already gone,

   somewhere between this moment—
   and the one where I step off that plane.

Nine days.

Not forever.

But forever enough.

I'm so ready to go.