I watched the blinking light atop the plane’s wing fade red to black—
the only brightness in a clouded sky.
Hardly distinguishable beyond the wing’s edge were stars,
blurred specks, miniature planets
born again from dust.
I watched the light, tried to see where ground met sky,
where the horizon peeked around clouds,
where the earth was recognizable,
We were going so fast,
it was almost as if we were still.
Which made me think of us, the rush
of our love and becoming.
Soaring through the air, three-hundred miles an hour,
destination unknown, so quick
we questioned whether we were moving at all,
or just spinning in circles.
I don’t know why I always think of you in planes—
30,000ft from where your heart beats, in all the ways
you’ll never feel me reaching for you,
searching, even still.
I’ll write a poem instead,
let my heart bleed across the page,
red and bold like the blinking light.
I’ll let the wings and words give me direction,
guide me back