I rolled over onto my back.
I reached up and wiped the sand beaches from the water line of my eyes.
My gaze fell to rest focusing on the corner of my ceiling where three planes came to an infinitesimal point.
The stale air reluctantly circled over and over through the whirling dervish blades of my floor fan.
I tossed to the left. My shoulder embossed with the intricate design of the thin sheets.
I ran my fingertips over every sullen divot in my flesh.
They felt like the imprints of dusty fingertips you left on my soul.
And though I knew better, I blamed you entirely for those wagon wheel ruts, muddy canyons I am still striving to cross over.
I realized it would only take two planes for us to meet.
The newborn air gladly pushing up the wings.
The plane indenting itself into the sky like a seal into melted wax, like the convex curve of a line.
But some lines are never supposed to truly meet.
Like the horizon.
The sky and the sea.
Running parallel.
Running indefinitely.