I grieve in the sky. Sometimes on the road. But never at home. This seems to be the order of things. But when it hits me, it's usually amidst a journey. During those distant times when the stranger to my right and I don't speak, so I am left with time to think. And then they turn to those I've lost. Recently and years past. And then the tears come. And, fuck, do they come fast. And I, who has to be the oak, can muffle my tears and choke down my sobs. I lean to the window. I look to the ground below through blurry eyes. Manhattan at night, lit up with a grid of yellow and white. It's freeways, like arteries, exposed to the light. Flowing like liquid. The left side is white, and blood red to the right. Churning below as I think of the grandparents I had once. The friends who went to soon. The wishbones hanging from the lamp at McSoorleys, asking the world to let it's boys who have died so long ago, with a helpless desperation, to come back soon. And I see the miles roll past in a blur of blue and green as I ride this flying machine and I realize that I am weeping the lost. The ones the world devoured in it's time from the belly of a beast. Each passenger, with their own sorrows, comprise it's feast. A private confessional amidst the clouds. So close to God, there is no need for a priest. And it suddenly makes sense why "here" is where I choose to make my peace. Like a pilgrim, with dust on his feet, shaking them at the beginning and end. I close the clouds and grieve.

"Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned."  ¶ 12:31 PM