In a flight, to a
place that isn’t home, it is easy to become immersed in the journey, the cold
colors of a dying day draining in the sky.
And the thousands
below, unknowing and silent, will never know the whispered thoughts that scream
through my mind at 500 miles per hour…thoughts that collide in a blue where the
below doesn’t matter.
As pale as an
evening star, as black as the first ink’d part of the sky in an abandoned East,
a thought of you spills like hot wax behind my eyes, slowly, warmly, spreading
like the orange in the sky. Alighting on
places in a blue where the below doesn’t matter.
Night crushes and
bruises the waning pales into a dark, but the tiniest, filmiest orange line
remains across the sky, a molten scar if only for a moment.
The smallest scars that remain from thoughts
of you, nearly invisible, rarely seen, and never known in a blue where the
below doesn’t matter.
