From your plane window, the purple sky
plods heavy on your heart,
snuffing out your last breath as
distant city lights
cause regret too great
to be contained in an air cabin
(regret over what?
the inadequate goodbye?
the shoes you didn’t buy?
On the airstrip, workers in reflective vests
solemnly wave red glowing wands
as if to signal goodbye.
The man beside you snores silently,
feeling nothing in his dreams.
Silhouettes of naked, nameless trees surround you.
What once was purple now is all black
and dense and thick in your throat.
You can’t think of much you’ll miss
but know there’s nothing waiting at home, either.
You feel your heart clamber out of your chest,
abandoning itself on the landing strip.