I crane my neck to see the moon rising like a rusty gourd outside the airplane window.
My stomach is turning, spinning in the opposite direction that my head is listing to.
I hear the staccato, constant cellophane crackle of covers being removed from processed food, and the constant thrum of the plane's organs as it whisks me eastward in its belly.
The warm blood of claustrophobia pounds in my ears and oh but
there are too many quiet, heavy bodies around me.
I feel sick and faint but I manage to breathe slowly, staying calm.
If only this thick, sick feeling would pass and I was home under the covers, with the moon outside my window, tucking me in with her watchful gaze. Soon.