Maybe not today or tomorrow and maybe not even soon. Maybe not even someday, maybe it won't ever happen, maybe all that happens is you watch the plane fly away. You walk into the fog, away from the corpse, straight into yourself and it's all you can do. Knowing one man is impossible enough, you can't expect to know many. So maybe regret never happens, maybe you're too busy fighting the good fight. Maybe the pang is always deep inside, maybe nothing ever really goes away. And one day you wake up, still in fog, rotten flesh in your nostrils, and you ask yourself how you got there. And it's all because you made her fly away.
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