a s h e s

flight patterns

you're in the business class of the prison-bird

(that roars through the air like a lion, more than a bird)

but you feel like cargo.

your seat is never comfortable and your heart is heavy

because you already miss what you had

and now you have to go back to what you ran away from.

there's an empty place inside your creased palm--

a place for her hand, but there's no hand there;

instead a sweaty fat hand-like ball of flesh

keeps bumping into you because the man is telling a story

that you don't care to hear but have no choice to hear

because you left your headphones on her bedside table.

the man, in a yellowed suit and loosened tie,

is telling you stories about his closeted sexuality

and his now second ex-wife,

but your mind is on what became your second-life

a life you'd rather live because you weren't alone

and you were with someone you enjoyed.

you hate to fly back, over the colored squares of land

and tiny mountains and star-dotted cities,

because you hate to face the reality that all things do not last,

and sometimes things are given expiration dates before they're

even conceived.

you politely ask the hostess for a drink and not-so-politely tell the man

you want to sleep and you wish he'd stop telling his life story because you don't care

(people always seem to tell their life stories and secrets to you,

they say you seem wise, but you're just quiet these days)

the man flusters and blubbers an apology and you lean back and wait

for the attendant to bring you something to numb yourself for a bit.

it's not like life hurts, although there is a dull ache on your shoulder where her head would rest

and in your ears where her laugh would find it's way to,

but you also enjoy the wonderful gift of not-feeling.

numbness makes the emptiness feel a little more full.