35,000 feet up
   and I’m closer to her
   than I’ve been in weeks— (as measured by altitude… not geography)

There’s a baby screaming somewhere in 17C.

The guy next to me (way too tall for a middle seat in coach)
   keeps elbowing the armrest…

   like it owes him money.

And I’m over here
   trying not to grin like a lunatic
   because I saw her “…” typing—

   and I know what that means.

This plane has snacks
   but not *her* snacks.

The air’s dry
   but not *that* kind of dry.

And I’m mentally drafting
   a poem I won’t write
   because it would be titled something like:

   “Tray Table Love Confessions”
   or
   “Your Name in the Pretzel Crumbs.” (pretzel does kinda look like a Mariposa)

I’m sipping tomato juice (with maybe a double splash of vodka)
   like it’s fine wine,
   scrolling back through her messages,

   laughing at the one where she fake-threatens to show up
   just to ruin my itinerary in the best way.

Cabin pressure’s fine,
   but *mine*?

Steadily rising. (enough to trigger the fasten seatbelt sign)

This isn’t a vacation.

This is a slow-motion approach
   to everything I’m trying not to rush.

And sure—
   the seat doesn’t recline,
   the Wi-Fi dropped again,

   and the snack mix tastes like packing peanuts— (of course I know what they taste like (don't ask))

But if this plane
   could just tilt
   a few degrees eastward?

I’d let it fly straight to her.