I don't look at the clock.
At the airport, it should be nearly eight in the morning.
Just enough time to architect the puzzle of the journey.
For the first time in my life I am free
from the need to prepare every detail of every step I take.
For the first time in my life I believe
in chance, that undetermined
to the most intimate self.
I listen to the fabric of space and check into the whirl.
I close my eyes and feel the scent of perfume,
present, the touch of skin.
I meander through the terminal.
The elation of anticipated looks,
the beginning of novels, if I want it to.
Soon, a chamber ballet.
Soon, a tango.
Outside, the sun.
That meticulous spider,
warm and liquid and inebriate
that turns the sky a deeper blue
...and each hour weaves a long web of minuscule minutes and it's not until I'm inside the plane that I realise I have been holding my breath and that my heart has been beating faster and faster and faster and then the comfort of the window seat and the flight program and faster and faster and faster and then the roar of the engines and then...
I open the first page of my notebook
and write the word,
Plane, wanting it to,
the beginning of my novel.
Above the ocean,
I leave the clouds behind.
I fly to you.