Frequent Crier Miles

Lyrics

She never checks a bag.
Just the one she carries on, the one she's carried all these years.
Doesn't have the app, doesn't know the number.
Her ticket's printed out on paper, folded till it's soft.
Boarding Group Seven. Back of the plane.
The airline calls her low-value.
A ghost in their machine.

These aren't the miles that make you gold.
This isn't a story that gets told
In the club lounge, over gin.
This is the journey that begins and ends
In the same quiet place inside.
These are the Frequent Crier Miles.
The kind you have to hide.

Eighteen hundred miles across the plains, a grid of sleeping towns.
She gets a window seat, 31A.
Watches the sun burn off the clouds.
The man up in 1A has flown twenty-three million.
He knows the flight crew by their first names.
Gets a hot towel and a glass of real glass wine.
She gets a plastic cup of water, and feels no shame.

He's flying to a meeting.
She's flying to a stone.
He's earning status.
She's just trying not to be alone, for a day.
With a name carved in granite, damp with November rain.
The destination isn't a city.
It's a memory of pain.

These aren't the miles that make you gold.
This isn't a story that gets told
In the club lounge, over gin.
This is the journey that begins and ends
In the same quiet place inside.
These are the Frequent Crier Miles.
The kind you have to hide.

The points expire in the morning.
They always do.
The account resets to zero.
Ready for the next trip through the blue.