Take-off

Photo by Robert Penaloza on Unsplash

Her seatbelt is already fastened

around the contours of her mind.

Her bags already reported

along with everything she left behind.

And the airport was calm,

as calm as a fever.

You can crash in her eyes,

but you will be met with a seizure.

You can dance in her hair

but you will still be beneath her.

Scheduled to depart

at five past five.

There’s a bet going on

whether or not you will leave her.

You are her rust

her shadow

her echo

her redeemer.

She’s branded on your eyes

woven into your finger tips

refracted on your mirror.

And you lie and lie

because her truth

unravels your pride.

As calm

as calm as the death notice

waiting to be signed.