Monday, 23 April 2012

21: Runway

I ran there in kneesocks.

The runway had spent the day foraging sunbeams, tucked them into an upturned apron, fingers stained yellow with the plucking.

So I walked over and pressed my face to the
tarmac.

The runway was the hot shadow of a parachute unfolded across the ground, it was the shoulder of a black leather jacket

my cheek needed to lean upon. Three days of unslept festival and bee pollen, chin begging for a prop.

I pressed my face into the runway and listened for the sound of airplanes, but there were no airplanes. The man sawed the wood

and it sounded like a sad pug waiting to inhale its last.

It sounded like a magic carpet being inflated. I tilted my chin and

I looked to the sky.

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