Flight #372, Boston to San Francisco

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?

             the reunion?)

 

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.

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