Dan and Dina Observe a Sky Writer

The things once said to you, long ago, appear now in the sky above the tower, trailing behind a small red airplane, and this saddens you, really, because flight is always melancholy and these little planes remind you of the past, which is also melancholy.

You believed you had forgotten these words, and that because you'd forgotten them, you'd buried them. Hadn't they been put to rest safely in the coffers of your own blank spaces? No one else should have had access to them, but you were handing the key to anyone who asked, and they are there now, emblazoned on the sky, words that had been private, that had unsettled you as they ceased their confused silence at the end of your tongue. What ambiguous treachery, seeing what you've written, somewhere other than where you had initially written them. The lines become more definite as their ambiguity is made more available. For everyone else, you wish to speak quietly.

At one time you had felt chosen, privileged with language, though you did not know why, and though really, a reason was not really what you were after, but a promise of continuance, solidity.

Of course, it isn't possible the sky-writer write them all, for there is only so much sky a plane can cross, and of course you can't read them all, there is only so much time before the wind sweeps the text away, returns the sky to its primary blankness.

But then this is okay. Their ever-approaching difference is what excites you, and they should be moving, endlessly on the verge of disappearing; but for you specifically, as though there are no other people looking up at this particular moment and seeing these particular words.