I’m not sure exactly where I found you,
but you carried the pieces of you you still had.
You never told me what happened to you,
never said a word in response to the questions,
too busy cradling all the things you had lost.

Maybe I found you in the wreckage of a previous disaster,
a 747 with the engines blown, coming down like heavy clouds,
streaking the sky like a meteorite, shooting star inbound,
make a wish, and I did, and here you showed up,
walking through the smoke on the night the world went up in flames.

You couldn’t tell the difference between heaven and hell,
synonyms for the same kind of pain that comes
when you’ve lost all hope you had in this world.
I think deep down it was you piloting that plane,
and you just happened to crash land on the path I was taking.

I don’t know what caused you to nosedive,
but I know that I tried to catch you and, in the destruction,
the strange blood in your veins added more layers to my skin.
The impact you made caused the world to stop spinning,
picking up the pieces on the night the world went up in flames.