From below they’re just distractions from the open sky,
Big white movements lost in the still of the sky.
But as I plane through them,
They’re the same kind of white as a river rushing by.
The angry kind.
Some things are better through the eyes.
I only believe when I’m asleep,
Over drinks the future glides.
But then I feel the speed of the present, it collides.
I’m so close to grabbing the arm of the stranger to my right,
Just til all this ruffling subsides.
And I think of him back on ground.
How the clouds eat up the wings,
Like it’ll puncture out the rain.
Like a baby with a teething ring,
Trying to understand the pain.
Oh I hate planes,
But they’re the only remedy for things staying the same,
So far that I’ve found.
And I think of him back on ground.
With the blooms your face was new with the spring.
Now my love pools into late nights and early mornings.
The city was the centerpiece,
But now it’s our frame.
Oh the things that can grow under the umbrella of a name.
This left empty seat beside sings of what we’ve made.
And I am lost in the sound.
And I think of you back on ground.