My maps are built
in the palms of my calloused hands
but I wouldn't know
to read them
because my eyes
have only learned to built
constellations of contorted stars.
As though blinking with a diminutive heartbeat.
The sky has a thousand hearts.
And he's almost alive,
he has known no edge to fall over,
no chasm to drown into.
And he wouldn't know when he shatters
because he's too old
to hold up on his brittle limbs.
He is beautiful,
born out of the blue every morning,
dying every night all over and
over and over.
When he's tired,
he cries and he screams
and he falls apart,
but we were taught
to call the rain nothing else than beautiful.
We were taught to draw away
from the thunderstorms and lightning,
because the sky is angry, they told us,
the sky will hurt you,
they said.
But who would know?
Who would know his agony?
Who would they ever know
how I survived this fall?