it’s 6:21 and when I look out my window from the corner of 29D, 

there’s a subtle hue of blood orange outlining what looks like the perimeter of 

a space

of sky

and a breeze of clouds, lighter than feathers, so thin, as if it forgot to carry the mist it was designed to pour tonight 

but that’s okay, because it found itself a new purpose:

your shrewd orange spirit is now perfectly veiled

i don’t touch you anymore.

 

 

it’s 6:24 and a tint of night blue and black are taking over your spirit 

and i can’t seem to tell between clouds 

just like i can’t ever seem to tell between your eyes anymore 

thick from thin, heavy from light, happy from absolutely drained  

         almost right, every time

are you the entire sky?

or just a cup of it on thursdays when i’m never able to read you.

 

 

it’s 6:35 and there’s a little white mountain at the edge of all this bubbly, cotton candy chaos

of mistrust and distance and wet right sides of the pillow

is that hope?

or another pile of doubt?

why is it peering over everybody else like it believes it needs to be seen

like it knows it’s been hidden, clammed inside the back-pocket of old jeans and silent dinners,

for far too long.

i can see it, over the far horizon, and it looks fragile, hesitant and seven hundred miles away but

i can see it.

can you?

 

its 6:51 and they’ve dimmed the lights 

i shift my glance to the bright blinking lights on the ends of the left wing

sparkle distracts me 

and i can’t remember the last time you smiled 

and when i decide its time to shift back — 

gone.

everything’s changed

the color of your fire, the space between two shelves of the atmosphere, the shape of the clouds

and the order in which they move

and the mountain, i thought i held the mountain with perfect grip 

but sunsets come and go and take things with them 

mama told me it’s never nice to go to somebody’s house empty handed

the orange shed it’s blood 

the black blotched it’s ink stains 

and i lost the mountain.