DFW taunts me,
    holding me hostage between flights,
    so close to people and places I love—

    yet not close enough.

I sit trapped—
    pretending to listen
    to a worthless call,

    words buzzing around me—

    like airport announcements I don’t care to hear.

My flight to PVR
    is only hours away,
    but every nerve,
        every thought,
        every heartbeat…

    wants to rebel,
    to run toward another gate—
             one headed *east*…

    back to Atlanta,
    back to laughter,
    back to Mariposa.

This layover isn’t waiting,
    it’s torture—
    knowing exactly where I’d rather be,
    with the one who’s become home,

    instead of waiting…

    for the flight that takes me further from her.

So here I sit,
    checking departures,
    playing out scenarios,
    and *ruthlessly* dreaming

    of choosing the wrong flight…

    knowing I'd never regret making the mistake that feels exactly right.