Around the time we met, you wrote me a note and folded into a plane while we waited for my clothes to dry at that dusty old laundromat off of the park.
You launched it in my direction and it vanished in thin air. We spent minutes on our bellies looking under the tired machines, to no avail. The shop owner came out from his office to shoo us away, thinking we were what, searching for quarters underneath?
Sometimes when I have trouble sleeping, I try to imagine what was written on that note:
Where are we going
on this tiny plane
and where will we go
Sometimes I wonder if it ended up In the place where our love is, hovering in the never-place and lingering so heavily in the air.