Whale Sky God

we came in low under a yellow god with fins. the runway was already dreaming. somebody had taught the fish to keep schedules, and the schedules had gone strange. i had one bag, one face, and a pocket full of wrong minutes. inside, the terminal breathed pink light. people waited like polite ghosts. the clocks were decorative by then. at the gate, i saw myself already delayed. she looked calm. that scared me. gravity was only a rumour here. the floor gave up first. then the chairs. then the idea that a body belongs to one decade at a time. we lifted sideways through fish traffic and airport perfume. for a while, i rode the big yellow animal across the soft machinery of the sky. it did not ask where i was going. good pilots never do. below us, the runways turned into maps. the maps became ribbons. the ribbons became nerves. then came the layover. pink clouds on thin red stems. chairs waiting for people who had missed themselves. when the final terminal appeared, it was too calm to be trusted. fish drifted through the ceiling like thoughts that had survived the crash. i walked in carrying less than i started with: one bag. one body. and a boarding pass stamped with tomorrow’s yesterday.