It’s been three years. As I drag myself from the wreckage of yet another crash Lungs full of smoke and skin seared with burns I can’t help but think of that day Three years ago When we stopped playing hide-and-seek Each of us circling the same gorgeous little two-seater Each of us refusing to believe we were not alone in the hangar— When we finally climbed into the cockpit Admitted that we wanted to fly this thing And started preparing for takeoff. It hummed to life like it had been waiting for us To put our hands to the controls Like it was not a machine to be flown But a connection and extension of our very minds How it leapt down the runway and soared into the sky! How glorious the flight through clear blue skies! How terrible the storm that hit. Enveloped by black clouds Tossed to and fro by the wind We wrestled with the elements And then my controls locked up. A moment of panic— “This thing can’t fly without two pilots!” A desperate grab for the handle by my feet One last look at my copilot Then a sharp tug, a violent flinging into darkness. I don’t know how you piloted out of that storm How you got that thing out of the sky But when I tracked you to the landing site (After months frozen to my ejection seat Numb and unable to move) I could see it was in bad shape Beyond repair? I didn’t think so But I arrived just in time to see you walk away Your helmet, left in the dust by a bent and twisted wing The last reminder of you. They say you’ve taken wing again A new copilot at the controls (I catch glimpses of a tiny speck high overhead sometimes) And after three years I can naught but wish you well But, burned and ****** from my last disaster I cannot help but sit here on the ground And dream of the sky.