It is the story of Icarus, forever some set of wings pressed hard against the hubris, always some sky on fire to abide. We glide above the clouds, the plane the ever-moveable feast confining these guests of heaven. A slow boil of a crowd, these nested destinies and intentions. Fingering bright devices, shifting in our seats. Spilling words and staring at a clock we cannot see. We stumble along, the sky all about us. Every thread awaiting its weave.
This is me, heartbroken on the aisle. This is me, just catching up with her words. Is this really happening, did she truly do it? She broke up with me, tearfully, but at a stride. It all sort of came rollling out. Too crazy, too stuck, too sad. And of course, far far too old. I lean hard on the armrest, skin sweating, breathing shallow. I am buffeted repeatedly by other lives, adrift as they may be.
Another strange extension, another reach into another heart. Alone amidst strangers, my only solace these small sad words. I am thirsty from the circulared air, my lips a constant tongue tested dry. Joints ache and tears swell in barest check, the journey itself suddenly awash with shame and sorrow. I take advantage of the altitude, stringing raw prayers together, seeding the clouds with want and fear. Please, I speak from silent lips. Please don't let her let me go.
