unsteady thunders, crumpled things

.

As my world burned, the unexpected still lingered in the air, the wind dancing through

my hair, the pale moon painting silver patterns on my skin, lightning erupting the sky.

The heavens spoke with anger, with rolling, twisted screams.

Shouting all of my faults, and coloring the freshly painted scars as if crimson flowers

crafted of blood and countless lives

that breathed in me with strange,

brutal softness of supernovas expanding in hushed murmurs.

Destruction was sometimes made of whispers in the dark, and not of glass shattering

under the sun.

The Gods spoke with egos that night.

Covering me in rain and tides, flames and devastation,

slipping their fingers into my skin, digging dip into the muscles, and ripping my solar system apart, strumming each vein like a goodbye song.

Changing water into fire, droplets into flames, until I screamed without voice,

seeing my path clearly, and on broken heels stumbling through the mud

and the careless winds howling into my soul.

One last light, one breath, and all that remained was static after the storm, with unsteady thunders pressing into my beaten-up form.

My path grew wider and more secure

until my weaknesses became the once-forgotten strength.

I moved forward to you, my destination,

the other part to my dark, to my light, to the air scribbled in bold in my lungs, drawn like blue ink tattoos,

a map written in cursive, always speaking of you.

.

.