you do not know I think of you on the way home in an airplane

the fear of finding you dead on Monday
the space between colors
the decisions made in art

not of this world
nothing of this world

the metaphor of metaphors of metaphors which are alive

the way I see nothing real outside of you
secrets so powerful
telling must be a lie

if an airplane is the closest to the life we are dreaming
and you are the only life there is
you will grow old and not know it
but I know death then is irony
and what we experience is an airplane

you must be something like the sky
always showing me what I cannot read

this is the poem I cannot write
this is the poem I will always be writing