On my way to the airport...

Turning toward Spring, as if for the first time you see trees. Their leaves snatched. Stealing color from season. It would be too easy to say their frail arms and upturned nails make them hideous. But they do. Behind, at a distance, is sky. Impossible to touch this steamed window reminds me of the image from the other side that crawls over eyes before the final death. You could stare for some time without realizing what it is, why you’ve become calmed. He said sensation is sensation is pure, pure fiction. Not that you heard, sleeping away from him finally forever.