Turbulence

Airplanes and the sky interact in a way that I don't fully understand,

I hold my breath,

close my eyes,

reach for the nearest hand,

and the pilot's voice says,

'It's alright,

a little turbulence is normal on any flight,'

but my teeth are still clenched,

and my knuckles are white,

and all I want to do is shake this feeling,

before my feet touch the ground.

-

My heart moves and shakes in a way that I don't fully understand,

some cellular misfire,

renegade chemicals,

an overly eager adrenal gland,

and the doctor says 'it's not uncommon,

to have an extra beat or two,

too little sleep,

too much coffee,

the stress of life just getting to you."

and I want to believe,

that it's all quite boring and true,

but it shakes me to my core.

Turbulence.

-

People and their affections work in a way I don't fully understand,

gleefully unpredictable,

or dreadfully not as planned,

are they mirrors?

Windows?

Walls?

None of the above?

A vague approximation of the idea of love,

incongruent shapes trying to fit like a glove,

trimming off corners and softening edges.

-

Every time the plane banks,

this feeling twists around my neck from the inside,

but I fly again and again.