Bustled, late, bags, jackets, traffic and rain, tickets, seats, a wipe off of glasses
Not that it matters, once aimed mouths cycle into easy polyphony, the what’s-the-word?
Hairs standing toward, unbroken, anything but at ease: my whole body now intent foothills, resonant stimuli to fill a body, a vessel, a world with chills focused to wherever these flights start, cycle and land.
My eyes aware of everything and empty, nothing, of tears, those tears rolling down both cheeks.
Unaware of how hard it is to, the welling of breath, still and rapt, not bearing to turn not to left nor to right not to lose my everything, I am euphoria. The last note drops, a hall hushed.