The Sky I Carry

I walk beneath a broken sky,
but pieces cling to me—
tiny shards of midnight blue,
a scrap of silver sea.

I pocket clouds like folded notes,
their whispers never fade;
even storms I do not fear,
they bloom the world they’ve made.

The earth pretends to hold me fast,
yet I am made of air—
each step a question to the ground,
each breath a quiet dare.

And if they ask me who I am,
I’ll point above, not high—
not to the stars I chase at night,
but to the sky I carry inside.