The Patterns of a New Jersey Stewardess

Is it the couplet black shoes she wears

Or is it never really feeling alone
Home only being a matter aware

Is it the shorelines that she knew
The Greek and Chinese waters
Only falter with such blues

Or is it the music circling the street
Certain songs that repeat
Are never sung by the muses
But it amuses me to see them compete

Is it the black curtains she cant hang up
Doves that guide the plane along
Need a lovely, lively song
And a strong sense of suffering
It's so tough to hang up those curtains

Or is it the everyday people
Creeping over lonely hills to get to work
That she will never truly meet
"Goodbye to all you movieless people
Creeping in sadness dabbed from your souls
I envy your whole miserable lives"

"Or is it your holistically charged desires
Like fire spreading over the driest grass
Only one lasts, but I can't remember"
And the embers of her broken speech
Reached me in the back row
Slowly, the words are sure in composure

Is it the way she sealed this feeling
In healing cadences of flowers
Hours and hours pass by the clouds
In recompense for their docile ways
A haze blazes from her hair

Or is it how her eyes never settled
Meddling concerns over pretzel bags
Her soul speaks, but does not brag
It drags over notes and Catholic bells

Is it the way she looked at me
As we reached the New Jersey shoreline
Time does not land like planes

Or is it how she never left
The theftless cave of my mind

Is it the sorrow coffee on her breath?