In Plane View

My left foot is on U.S. soil, the other is on the plane.
If we won’t work this time, it’s my turn to escape.
 
He tried to make me understand.
He pulled me outside and into the sun.
He guided my chin up to the sky.
Our shoulders touched, my face warm,
I couldn’t open my eyes.
 
He said, “I can’t love you.
Can you feel it? Can’t you see?
I’m blinded and spineless,
And you don’t deserve this.”
 
When we walked back to the shade,
Our separate shadows formed one eclipse.
His aura was blurred before the bulbs of color
Adapted to the overcast, and then was gone.
 
He was right.
He tried holding my hand, but I shook him away.
He asked why I’m always in a hurry.
“I’m not,” I said, “I just have to catch a flight.”