I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.

I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.

Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.

Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.

At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,

I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.

As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,

Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.