Holding pattern. Fuel low.
No room for me down there.
I have written a note to a radio asking for guidance.
I am blowing kisses at the control tower.
I am tapping out Morse code on my forehead with my forefinger.
I am collecting my tears as proof of my distress.
I am staring at the approaching ground.
I am using 24-hour coda to tell nobody that it’s too late now.
This isn’t communication.
This is me and my sad dance.
“This is your captain speaking, and I can’t get the fuck over myself! The co-pilot was a figment of my imagination! I can scare away my imaginary friends, too! Surprise! I implore you all to stay seated. Thank you for flying with me!”
Oh, I do declare; that captain is a professional.
Oh, me. Oh, my.
Of course, the cabin is empty. I left without saying anything and left the ocean and the sky in charge of the space between us.
There’s only one motherfucking fake on this motherfucking plane!
All the life-jackets mean nothing in the face of the runway’s bitch-slap.
Slap. Crash. Stupid. Bitch.
I was fooled by the wording.
There is no landing, only the crash.
Formes Frustes – Over and Out (2015)