Maybe the poems are dangerous—
  words turning into wishes,

  wishes turning into planes falling apart.

Literally.

The plane broke.

Something about the front,
            or the engine,
  or maybe reality itself—

  finally cracked…

  under the weight of my stubborn refusal to say goodbye.

Flight cancelled,
  plans rearranged,
  a new booking for tomorrow (yesterday)—

And suddenly,
  the universe whispers:

  “Just kidding. Here’s one more one more.”

At this point,
  I'm afraid to even unpack,
          book another ride,
     or say another goodbye—

  in case reality decides to collapse again…
                     just to prove me wrong.

So tonight—
  we laugh again,
     toast again,

  pretend it's the first last time again…
  knowing full well—

  there might just be another one more waiting tomorrow.

But if poetry has taught me anything,
  it’s that reality can’t be trusted—

  and neither can goodbyes.