It's easier to breathe

when you're no longer flying

soaring up in the clouds

with dead pressure in your ears.

Down low you're not uneasy

with pavement flattening your shoes.

In the sky you cannot pace

only glide

swoon

sustain.

I've landed with a scrape

I pick at the scab once in a while,

it's itchy. She makes it so.

She won't be my “you” anymore

won't be my jet engine

or hot air balloon.

We're on our motorcycles

vrooming away in reminiscing clouds of dust.

Drift down

clear the air

after a cloud of dust

there's nothing there

you can only crash

if we look back.