Transatlantic

Only sex and flight lose time like this
Pop songs are curves of the same length,
outside the sight of the clock.
In this plane,
above this ocean,
my headphones swell with
bitter melodies
candied in echoplex
and fattened violins,
cooed at by low thrums
that reshape themselves
into your open mouth,
your hips slithering around me.
There is a tiny gap in my mind,
where the moan you made sat.
I only remember how it felt to hear it.
It comes back to me like a song I heard and loved,
but that dissipated, leaving
a phantom trace of notes in sequence
that probably doesn't exist. I can hear
the breath around it, though,
and as the plane jitters through turbulence,
as the melody, cupped to the side of my head
like your hands did slants
towards a lush and glorious crash
of cybals and chords, your tounge stirs
a weird magic into the mix.
Outside the window of the plane,
there is nothing,
and under that,
water and water and water.

--M. Doughty

There for you is one mans version of love, sex, and airplanes.

I'll tell you mine in a few days, at which time my girlfriends and I will all rejoice in the simple (yet somewhat audience specific) essay that builds to the final line--oh yes--I did write it down. And yes, I swear by all that is holy, it actually happened. In a few days, we will all unclip our tounges, new projects to conquer; I will write and we will read and all of us together will know new freedoms. Only sex and flight lose time like this.
--M