Antigravity

Flying makes me imponderable
to every earthy law or logic.
I tend to dissolve each possibility
in pieces of anxiety.
I let my irrationalities roam free
through the exit rows.

With time, I learned not to cling
onto stories I tell myself on the ground.
I am an air sign after all,
so everything I need is spread
into particles of meaningless
time-space equations,
like full moons, sunrises and sunsets,
miracles and magic, demons and angels.

Somewhere between altitude and absence,
I remember that weightlessness
is a discipline of the soul.
Up here, the heart has no walls to lean on,
only turbulence to fold into stillness.

I trade my fears for thin air,
my certainties for contrails.
What falls away was certain deadweight;
what stays hums quietly,
like a wing learning its own geometry.