by Luke Strickler
Boy, things here have spiraled out of control more than a blown engine in an air pocket. First, let me just say I had no idea my skywriter was going to fall in love with you. When I hired him, he was but a novice pilot looking to make some easy, romantic side cash, like any man with bills and a heart. There was no way I could predict he would so quickly become infatuated with you, littering the air with his love.
I know how you’ve enjoyed my cloud messages over the years, looking up to a fair weather reminder of my affection, but now I’m beginning to question just how much of that was from me, and how much of it was from Miguel. Was that poem in the sky my birthday present to you, or the start Miguel’s slow cuckolding novel he’d spell out over the years?
I will admit some faults may be on my end, at times seeming disinterested in you as a person, often falling asleep during our love making, pinning you to the bed under my slumbering body weight, forcing you to listen to me sleep talk my way through a conversation with your sister in which I take her to a museum where you can touch the displays, only to pretend it never happened come morning.
It was this failure of communication that led me to instruct Miguel to freestyle most of my skywriting to you in the period of ‘06 through ‘15. And for that I apologize.
Though they may not have been my messages, know that they still came from my heart. I mean this metaphorically of course, as they literally came from Miguel’s heart, and were often very well written prose, or rhythmic poetry that warms your heart as it tears it in two. He may have proven himself a lying, backstabbing Casanova, but I will not sit here and doubt his ability as a writer. Whether by plane or by spirit, truly he is above us all in that regard. The fact that he chooses to paint his word pictures above us is saint like at least, making the blow of his emotional betrayal that much more devastating.
It is at this time I should probably address that I am still bitter that you left me for him. When I instructed him to wish you a happy Valentine’s from the clouds, you can only imagine my confusion, looking up from desk at work to see “Will you marry me, Betsy?” floating over downtown. And I don’t think you can imagine my confusion, coming home to see you and Miguel, flying overhead, spelling out your sky vows.
In the end though, I realize it is I that must apologize. You were but a rose, and who am I to say who will walk through your garden next? I am the one who hired this deceiving, sensitive aviator, and I must bare his curse. Perhaps some day I will look up, and see a message for you from another skywriter that’s you’ve snared, spelling out his heart in the sky.
Boy, things here have spiraled out of control more than a blown engine in an air pocket. First, let me just say I had no idea my skywriter was going to fall in love with you. When I hired him, he was but a novice pilot looking to make some easy, romantic side cash, like any man with bills and a heart. There was no way I could predict he would so quickly become infatuated with you, littering the air with his love.
I know how you’ve enjoyed my cloud messages over the years, looking up to a fair weather reminder of my affection, but now I’m beginning to question just how much of that was from me, and how much of it was from Miguel. Was that poem in the sky my birthday present to you, or the start Miguel’s slow cuckolding novel he’d spell out over the years?
I will admit some faults may be on my end, at times seeming disinterested in you as a person, often falling asleep during our love making, pinning you to the bed under my slumbering body weight, forcing you to listen to me sleep talk my way through a conversation with your sister in which I take her to a museum where you can touch the displays, only to pretend it never happened come morning.
It was this failure of communication that led me to instruct Miguel to freestyle most of my skywriting to you in the period of ‘06 through ‘15. And for that I apologize.
Though they may not have been my messages, know that they still came from my heart. I mean this metaphorically of course, as they literally came from Miguel’s heart, and were often very well written prose, or rhythmic poetry that warms your heart as it tears it in two. He may have proven himself a lying, backstabbing Casanova, but I will not sit here and doubt his ability as a writer. Whether by plane or by spirit, truly he is above us all in that regard. The fact that he chooses to paint his word pictures above us is saint like at least, making the blow of his emotional betrayal that much more devastating.
It is at this time I should probably address that I am still bitter that you left me for him. When I instructed him to wish you a happy Valentine’s from the clouds, you can only imagine my confusion, looking up from desk at work to see “Will you marry me, Betsy?” floating over downtown. And I don’t think you can imagine my confusion, coming home to see you and Miguel, flying overhead, spelling out your sky vows.
In the end though, I realize it is I that must apologize. You were but a rose, and who am I to say who will walk through your garden next? I am the one who hired this deceiving, sensitive aviator, and I must bare his curse. Perhaps some day I will look up, and see a message for you from another skywriter that’s you’ve snared, spelling out his heart in the sky.
Luke Strickler is a writer in NYC, and a person everywhere else.