Window Seat

Sometimes

I am fine

but my soul
needs a window seat.

One of those
last-minute flights
they’re always advertising.

You know the kind.

Cheap enough
to make you suspicious.

The kind where
you don’t ask questions

because questions
are how you end up
staying home.

I don’t care
if they put me
in the last row.

If the seat
doesn’t recline.

At this point

I just want to go.

Not because
I am broken.

Because sometimes

melancholy
needs a different sky.

A street
that has never seen me
overthink.

A café
where my name
means nothing

except coffee.

A museum
where I can stand
in front of a painting

and let someone else’s blue
explain me
for a while.

I don’t want
a perfect trip.

I want forty-eight hours

where my mind
stops chewing
on the same sentence.

Where silence
is not punishment.

Not waiting.

Not something
I have to translate.

Just clouds.

Just engines.

Just me

pressed against
a little airplane window

watching the world
get small enough

to forgive.