Fuselage

There are steel girders in my chest holding up the rusting fuselage of my heart. It creaks ominously when it takes unsteady flight every time I cross the threshold of night into your tentative arms. Is it strong drink and heavily lidded eyes that drive you to pull me down to your side or has something shifted to a shaky place in the glare of the overhead lights?

They are laughing. Cackling through the walls, giggling at us in a teasing way before returning to the wine bottles scattered over the table. The conversation turns heated unnoticed by you as your breath turns soft. Drifting as your fingers drift to the place where my shirt meets my pants and the skin shines through.

Soon the drink does its heavy work and sleep takes you over. I, however, stand to take my fuselage out into the night to see if I can start uneasy flight to the cold moon on a clear fall's frigid wind. The cockpit is filling with smoke and the wings are flying apart but I move forward anyways. I stretch my arms out and flap. Start running down the street. Just a little faster and I can get my heart off the ground.

Sex and frustration make strange bedfellows with night coming down like a curtain to make hearts in stumbling flight lose their way in the dark. They say all you got to do to fly is throw yourself at the ground and miss. The only trouble being that no matter how hard I try I just can't seem to avoid the ground rushing up to meet my face.