I want to make you cry. I want you to see it so you can feel pain and pleasure.

I’m a reckless driver, I speed by on the highway home. I’m going in the opposite direction of home, it takes a minute to figure it out but that sky isn’t there for nothing.

More than the pinks and yellows of sunset, it’s more. It’s the tiny little outline of the airplanes I’m driving past. Thin outlines of a silver blue despite the orange sky. How does that silver lining get there? If I study it hard enough I’ll die in a car crash so I only ever get a glimpse of that silver lining.

The sky is there to map it out, above a field of track where planes are going to come and go for the next six months.

And I’ll be gone, you know. You didn’t know. I’ll be gone, I’ll be gone to where the pavement tastes like freedom. I’ll be gone to where my tears bear fruit. I’ll be on a plane for six months, and you’ll be here, wondering where I went to.

If I could make you cry, if I could make you feel pleasure and pain.

Then I’ll come back and I’ll be excited and you’ll be excited and we’ll hug and kiss and it will be sweet, almost like the fruit I bore with my tears, but never quite. I’ll be excited to come close to landing and see for the first time rows of this place, and my heart will skip for you and for then and for was.

But it won’t last. I can’t make you cry and I can’t make you sing and I can’t show you what that is – to go in the opposite direction of home, to follow the sky with your eyes, to feel the way and the silver lining along the bellies of airplanes.






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