another poem written on a plane

swallowed whole, stalled
but moving — forward
speckled blue carpet
that constant dull roar
can of Stella — 5€
an entire country
eclipsed by clouds
altitude — 37028
time will soon cease to
make sense, make meaning
as I make a move
as I sit still, hope for sleep
missing what I refuse to
miss, to mourn, to
too much, for now, I escape
it’s not running away if I
if I don’t run, if I just
if I just wander my days
my days, away
our days, thrown away
it’s not giving up if
if I don’t admit that I
that I gave what I could
what I gave, I gave
gave up
up here — it’s clear
turbulence, temporary
steady now, as I 
as I


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