A fragile silhouette slipped
on something a little more comfortable-
blanch silk wrapped in navy noose:
this eulogy is beautiful.
She lusts the touch,
the stain I spill across her limbs;
I'll tell her everything she wants to hear-
because I wrote the book on us.
This is love
with dashed guidelines,
margins, and pencil perfect nothings.
My cursive serenade.
This song makes better braille-
but she knows that more than anyone.
My little anything I want,
welcomed to fold.
I'd like to think
us more than origami makeshift:
duct tape & staple, main of paperclip.
I loved her on dawn of inkblot,
and through the lost quotation-
but this question mark you wear
is no enigma.
Beneath the misanthrope
your paper mashea quivers;
dampened by your own metaphor,
you risk womb for slight of hand.
You have no spine and for that
I'll hold you closer-
as your conclusion finishes i: our stigmata divine-
crucifixion of the paper tiger;
I am your pleasantry vindicated
in lacerate: ϯ.
We are artificial-
answered blanks surrounded
by the quills forgotten question.
I'll hold these paper cuts to my heart
short a postage mark.
Untold in ink so sincerely-
I loved the lack of right
in this love that I never chose to write.