At last.

The plane's intact,
    the front's stayed on,
    engines hummed,
    and somehow…

    despite every attempt by fate (or faulty mechanics)—

    we're airborne.

Bloody Mary first,
    sanity second,
    a nap somewhere in-between,
    as I pause mid-air,

    heading somewhere that used to be home.

PVR waits quietly,
    warm waves,
    soft sand,
    friends drifting away with the season's close—

    and now it feels like visiting, not returning.
    (my round trip begins and ends in DFW, not PVR)

Because home isn't just a place.

Home is a feeling—
    It's conversations I didn't know I needed.
    It's goodbyes I never quite believed.
    It's laughter in a bar named Irby's…

    drinks poured like memories,
    jokes told in whispers,
    quiet moments stolen—

    that still echo every mile away.

So today I'm wheels up,
               finally…

    heading *not* home—

    but somewhere familiar,
        somewhere temporary,
        somewhere to rest…

    until I pack again.