At the JFK Luftansa Lounge contemplating whether I should give in to another thought to you

Everything was crowded before I entered the lounge. I was stuck in a 100-yard line that stretched from one end of the airport to the next. Around me, people were huddled together with their heavy bags, checking their phones and looking around for shorter lines. The boys speaking Korean in front of me laughed and shuffled with their backpacks half-slung across their shoulders. More and more, these weary-looking people appeared from out of nowhere and queued up behind me until the line looked like a giant ant trail receding in the distance. Or maybe they looked more like a long stream of birds, only less graceful. Somehow, the similes aren't coming so easily to me now, forgive me. I've been thinking too much of you. Sorry; I digressed. Now, what did they look like? Did they twitch? Did they scurry? Or did they just fly into the lines?

And then I find myself inside the lounge, where it is drastically more quiet. There is blue carpeting and the seats are made of blue leather, and the people are de-oxygenated under the lights. Outside it is also blue. A deep, dark blue that might taste like cold medicine if consumed. The little ceiling lights get reflected in the window outside, and I see my reflection under them, and it makes me asks silly questions, like is this me? She looks so much older than me. Too weary to be me. What is she thinking? What does she think, and does she think, and how?

Behind me someone coughs, and it is a short sound that distracts me once again. Stale air rests unmoving around me. Colorless, but I imagine also somewhat blue. Before this, I sped through two hours of snowy highways and measured the hours by how many times I could play Joni Mitchell's "Blue" (1971) on loop and hold off the thoughts of escaping, with her voice in my ear, to a downtown bar somewhere in Cincinnati. I've never been to Cincinnati, is it nice there? I miss you. I'm sorry, I do.

I miss you, but no, not you, not you specifically — that you never met me, and neither did the you that told me he liked the way my hair hung in tendrils when it was in a bun. That was a month ago. So not that you. The you I'm thinking of never existed, though sometimes that you gets played in my memories so much it might have been you, the you for me, that you'd so often from the start, employing you so liberally I might as well have fallen in love with it. At best, that you was untenable, the you that is there and then isn't, that flickers in between states of me falling for you, and that somewhere in those moments, the same you that separated from me when he figured it wasn't working. What does it take to work? How does something work, function, be, without a you? 

Yes, that you hurt me. Still, it beats the pain of nothing at all. Why do the lights in this lounge have to be so dim? And why did I match accidentally into this furniture? I can't stand this blue. It reminds me of old memories and cough medicine. I can't stand it, honey.