thirty five thousand feet above
the ground, it's 5am.
eyes sliding open,
i am in another window seat.

in an accident of literary devices
it is grey outside, and silent,
with a tinge of beige.
airline pillows and hard plastic
feel like waking up after you left
mouth mashed against our wall
in place of your shoulder
where you smell of beach sand, and clean
instead of farts, sharp breath
and my unwashed foot needling awake.

every time, this grieving.
this screaming in my jaw
while i sit still, quietly
watching lake simcoe, or ceiling shadows
sidle past