you think you lose nothing when you travel 

here are some things banned in hand-carry bags: 

liquids more than 100ml, unable to fit into a standardised, clear 20x20cm bag

nail clippers

swiss knives, sharp objects 

here are some things caught in the unrelenting scrutiny of the silver rectangular frames

your belt - remove it! but please, let me help you with it, sir. (always offer, and watch them flinch; always good to make men uncomfortable.)

your dr. martens 

your cell phone

at the airport, a miracle. you discover

your triple-stack bimba & lola ring

and 

the lighter in your back pocket  

manage to make it through customs, spared the re-queues, strip searches, and the ultimate fate of airport bins. scoffed at ladies who threw make-up out, and the untimely deaths of half-drunk sodas.

on the escalator down to the tube at kings cross i discover

over and beyond the crappy plane food, the bag scanners, the jacked up 3.64 euro mineral water, the eight timezones, and your flight playlist 

are some more things that stuck the journey out 

the look you wear on your face before i feel the roof of your mouth, hi, hi there, three months has it been 

the callousness of your one hand — the left — always also more romantic to remember.

under the sheets i discover

here are some things that will follow you across borders, past the accusing gaze of immigration officers, lazy brown eyes behind glass counters, 675kph in the air, fourteen hour flights and an easy twenty degree drop in the temperature

the 9 am bed state: sheets spaghettied around your legs

your breathing rhythm: soft, unhurried, steady, as you are yourself

the way your toes are crunched up, yes you like this

your slurry ‘i’m awake’ murmur, barely distinguishable in amsterdam centraal, in versailles of paris, in west kensington of london, in calle de padilla of barcelona, in bangkok. no language like ours.

in the dim light of the tapas restaurant i discover

there was yet something that followed you from singapore 

your astronomical appetite for meat, and unapologetically so. 

at the bottom of our jug of sangria (yes, spain, and therefore) i discover 

one to the unending list of things that clung on 

your fortress of an alcohol tolerance — yours the house the wiseman built on rock, mine the house the fool built on sand

after all the stringing of foreign words together, the posing for photographs, the google-map hunts, the good walks — the ones with kisses are always the best, no point in denying that —, at the departure gates of heathrow i discover again 

here is one to an equally unending list of things you cannot take back to singapore,

me.

i remember now

you take everything when you travel

and you take almost everything when you leave.

nat w

something i chanced upon (link above) and it was so beautiful