See how she stands on tiptoes,
to reach his waiting lips,
the airport buzz cocooning them
in sound

On tippy-toes, just like a ballerina
a ten year old girl in pink,
blonde hair tied back,
dancing
All grown up now

See how she falls away,
the gate controllers calling,
they might as well be calling
her name

She almost seems too eager
to be leaving, though she knows,
she must pretend. Her sadness is
obligatory

Her tears are well practised,
as she waves. Like those dance moves
long ago. He is an audience
of one.