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.
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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