Starts out with a triangle cut out of the back revealing the back. Leaves little to the imagination, but for some reason the eye and pelvis are focused on that bit of missing geometry, rather than say, the bare legs, the bare shoulders, or the liquid curves. It doesn't matter which side of the road traffic ought to be driving on, it gets stopped just the same. No real rival can be as charming as the ones made up of bits and pieces of movies and paranoia. That there are flights every day brings comfort which turns to ash quickly at the thought of how little there is to liquidate, or how little sense it would make to be spontaneous and how long the situation is going to go on for, how many opportunities there are for cheating, for rethinking, for getting distracted, for outgrowing, for forgetting, for abandoning, for being swept up in the things that exist over there that don't exist over here. The old buildings, the very old churches, the bright lights, the green fields, the late hours, the strong whiskey, the international vibe, the old world charm, the new world charm, the opportunities, the opportunities.
In between is the chance to drop out of the sky without any warning and, presumably drown, but perhaps become stranded on an island, whether magical or secular. That, on the way to experience love, the lover may end up in a straw-drawing situation the wages of which are death and being eaten, or may revert to a frightening animal state and know that the trip was only being taken on behalf of the still faithed in relationship and that feeling of responsibility, deserved or forced may be enough to cauterize the last open heart parts.
Or else the plain lands safely and the lights of the city which seems to exist only as life support for the airport, for the runway, are brilliant and varied, much more so than the lights of the night sky that had seemed so special, seemed to spell out love's own name for the past many hours. The being nowhere and nothing and unreachable from above or below, the knowing that there may be a seismic shift, a fall of man, a change of perspective but riding it as the degree of change rides change.
The missing triangle of purple fabric haunts the mind's eye, is pointy like anger, is flimsy like the foundation it's time to admit. Everybody's got the right to be happy, but everybody's got the right to be happy.