all lightning struck and crumbling,
only knowing I had fallen
when the rubble broke bone.
This was the color of sky fragmented
by the prism of a bloody setting sun
that I had mistaken for a new day.
This was the sound of air
rattling in my chest
around the stalagmites
of unfinished conversations.
This was not the end
of the music in words
demanding to be recognized.
This was not the end of the story.
This was when I knew
making paper boats out of all my stories,
hoping one was sturdy enough
to carry me to the next shore.