You treat the spaces in between us
  like objects of permanence in the universe.

And I occasionally find myself offended by this attitude.

But as I watch your hands flying over the ivory
  twin prop airplanes preparing for the war.
Your fingers, mallets
  striking out every last imperfection in the keys.
Your voice is a siren piercing the night.

And I begin to understand
that you were right.
This is forever
and we're not going home.

We're just drifting.