origami boy, with your folded sides and creased edges.
with the tips of your fingers, and the pads of your thumbs —
you made caricatures and imitations of life.
from swans, to flowers, to butterflies —
every day you folded papers, until your hands went numb.
one day, you were out of paper
and all i could offer you was my heart
you took it, and folded, and folded, and folded.
a plane, it became, a plane to be held by the dusty old clouds.
a plane to reach places you've only ever heard stories about.
a plane you made out of my heart.
i've always loved every piece of art —
that you have made, except for that one little plane
for it distorted my heart into corners,
and took you away from me.
now, i could only wish that the cuts my little paper heart will give you would hurt as much as missing you.
well, does it hurt? does the pain remind you of me?