Saturday, December 26, 2009

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Saturday, December 5, 2009

pilot light

I’ve been wrecked by Amelia Earhart. When she’s not around, I nuzzle the fuzz on the inside of her leather cap’s ear flaps, finger the soft folds of her tan aviator’s jacket. When she nonchalantly breezes through the room, slings her jacket over her shoulder, matador-like, I thrill to the fact that my fingerprints, the tiniest morsels of my skin, travel with her.

She always knows exactly where she is. I only know by my proximity to her. To Amelia’s left. To her right. 5,000 miles away. Beyond my grasp. Right now, she’s doing something with a map and a compass at the table, sipping her coffee. Now she’s calculating something on its edge. Now she’s talking out loud, and I pretend that she’s talking to me when she mutters, but I know her sweet nothings are just for the sky, something big, something beautiful, something that makes her free and brave and strong. Something that makes her fly. I’m nothing she even sees, with skin barely the color of sand, eyes the color of dirt in the rain. I’m hardly even here.

When I dab plane fuel behind my ears, she sighs the sweetest sound, a dove’s coo, breeze through spring branches on a warm night. She swoons slightly, she stirs, she looks up at me. And she grabs her cap and jacket. The air is calling her. That’s what she wants. That’s where she’s going. I know how it feels to want like that, to be pulled, torn apart, incapable of doing anything but that thing that is calling to you. It’s how I feel about her.

It’s why I’ve painted myself the idyllic blue of the clearest sky, bought clothes that are the shiniest silver of the fanciest planes, dyed my hair the serene dark of midnight skies. And I’m still not close enough to what she wants. I’m still not good enough for her. I’m only good when I’m near her. She’s the only thing that makes me feel good.

When her I hear propeller stutter overhead, I run outside to watch her soar, feel the sudden cold of her plane’s shadow pass over and through me. When I reach my fist up to the sky, stretch my fingers up, it’s like I can almost touch her, even when my hand is empty. From that high up, I can almost believe she’s smiling down, waving, seeing me see her, loving the reflection, seeing herself soaring over me. She’s never more beautiful than when she’s completely gone.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Tuesday, December 1, 2009