i used to take pictures from airplane windows.
high above the horizon
colors dipping below
the pillow of clouds
but i can no longer focus on the blurry wing and granite sky.
the man in first class pens perfect calligraphy
with a fancy fountain pen.
the paper filled with geometric dots,
but i have only learned how to read handwriting.
the character in the book i am reading,
written by a kid wiser than i’m wise enough to admit,
said that beautiful stories make him sad
because nothing is beautiful and honest.
the story must not have been true.