Pilot

He will never walk among

The kings of wands.

An obsession with desire,
Though a desirable affection,
He is only king of my thoughts;

A beautiful craft constructed from
Aluminum touches, muffled voices;

His hands grip the yoke.

Tonight, I tell him which way to go,
And he teaches me what I already know—
Go fast, go slow—what difference does it make?
Our destination is always the same;

The pilot owns the navigator,
The sky owns our fate.