In April- You’re closer to the sun in a window seat. Eight hundred k’s until we meet and I’ll meet you standing still. A pilot standing by must have caught your eye. That jet-lagger he’s in disguise he’s one of the million. This clock’s gathering dust and I’m not impressed. Fly away to my address and my turbulent gut. I patiently give up as the final call’s announced over the terminal and I curse back at the sun. I’m breathing fuel, its chemicals could start a fire and burn until I sight your arrival but I probably never will. You promised you’d be on that flight, least of all you said you’d write. I guess you couldn’t find the time and probably never will. I’m sorry if your dreams didn’t come true. I’m sorry they were sure you would board. I’m sorry that of a million passengers not one was you.