ABOVE THE GROUND

A hundred thousand feet
above the ground,
and all I can think of
is your arms,
full of me.
I was marking days in a calendar,
awaiting that moment
of our half-full glasses
making an overflow of feelings,
but now
I’m drinking myself stupid
and my glass
is always empty
instead.
Yes, they say
that
time heals all wounds,
but I’m self-harming myself
to oblivion,
making the irony sweet
and
the sarcasm sweeter.
I’m re-reading your letters
as others try to decipher my moods
and palms,
and even the remains
of my old coffee.
I leave them all
blank-faced and confused,
because
I hide it so well.
A hundred thousand feet
above the ground.

– Chatty Owl –