29D: Window, not Aisle
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
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.
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 —
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.