Gone.

I’m gone from the ground, I know, as I stretch my toes, feeling the weight of gravity calling to them.

The ground.

The ground, the home, the earth weighty with the steaming of towers, the running of inner city rivers, the calling and yelling and laughing of millions of lives.

Gone.

I’m alone, gone is the bustle of everyone else’s thoughts and dreams and hopes and fears and screams. It’s frighteningly quiet, as the miles stretch and the connection I’ve had with mankind seems to curl and whisp and fade away.

The ground.

It’s a patchwork, a fabrication, every tiny speck in it a universe to someone else, so many peoples’ worlds spread out on a canvas of green and brown and grey.

Gone.

Where I was has disintegrated in my mind, my home immature and almost non-existant, a pixel in the threads of this masterpiece. If I was coming down, coming back to it, maybe I could learn to see it as the entirety of the world. But flying away-it will be remembered as a speck and nothing more.
Nothing more.

Gone.

Gone from the ground.

Flying away, feeling the gravity of what used to be home pulling at my toes.

The ground is gone.