A paper plane crashed into my window yesterday. Ink dripped through the broken fuselage, caught fire, and the frantic letters burned. It woke my whole building, the subsequent explosion howled like a broken bottle. Like broken teeth in temples. I held you close, and did we fall asleep too easily? Dreaming of fingers shaking like seismographs. Morning breaks over our foreheads. Wet clumps of pulp cling to bloodied grass blades, and an ash butterfly kisses your cheek. No survivors, you tell me, saving your tears for a rainy day.