She uses the empty bottle like a kaleidoscope. Twisting it, holding it up to the light. The highway streaks in her hair are purple in the sunlight. The browns of her eyes reflect the dirt far below.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
She doesn’t know how to describe the in between. Where bodies are airy and the breeze is the loudest chorus. She doesn’t know how to tell him she is composed of yesterdays and he is a sum of tomorrows.
They never cross paths, but the wind is their sky bridge. The sky is their home. She hasn’t seen him in months. Not since he made the choice to clip his wings. She didn’t understand his decision, but she always supports him, even if it means she never gets to experience the pleasure of his presence.
He found the ground to be a satisfying place to converse with Gravity. She always thought Gravity looked better from a distance.
She swings her legs from the cloud, her flip flops threatening to fall. Sometimes she gets bored being all alone, far away from the people she describes. She likes to capture their little moments. Little details no one notices. The pureness in their eyes, the edges of their shoulder blades. Some people don’t like to be caught. They don’t like to be seen. They like to blend into the crowd—life’s back-up dancers. No name to the feeling, no feeling to the face.
He notices the difference in the silence. But he can’t describe it. Words were never his forte. She wonders how it feels to be incapable of describing the weight. The burdens that nest in the mind. Does being unaware of the feelings make them easier to ignore? Are they meant to take flight? Or are they meant to be infertile, malnourished, unhatched.
She supposes life is better on the ground. Not perched on clouds, unable to really connect with the traffic and the people and the dirt. She remembers a simpler life. You cannot fall if you do not rise above where you’ve been planted. There’s a lot of risk involved in migration, cutting through roots, taking higher roads.
She writes to him, tells him she misses him. He tells her stories of the ground. He never tells her he misses their home. She assumes anything unsaid is unfelt. She wonders if this assumption is a mistake. Or maybe she’s spending too much time thinking about what’s unsaid and not paying enough attention to the choreography of body language. The sighs, the smiles, and the outstretched arms. It’s a language she understands very little of. She wishes someone would teach her. She doesn’t know where to begin.