seven forty seven

just as

we’re about to touch down on the tarmac

we dip slightly,

rise again into the glaring early morning sun.


below us,

the city dissolves.


a thick, jewel green forest carpets the hills

and mansions bloom out of the trees,

obscured only by the haze of panicked uncertainty.


this is some kind of fairy tale land and I am


imagining how it would feel to disappear as

metal and bone fold into its jewel green hills.


what does nothing feel like?

does it hurt?



but instead of an answer, the

plane dips again,

swings wide and heads back towards the sun,

the city,

the certain ache of living.


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