i spent my nights writing wishes into
paper cranes after we broke down, a repetition
of ink to paper - fold, press, release -
your name, your name, your name,
became habit every time i picked up the pen
when i dream of walking through
haunted houses, i hear voices through the
open windows, i swear it is you saying
come home, baby, come home.
a draft cuts through each whisper and i pretend
it is your breath on my neck,
that your hands will follow, but when i turn
it is only the breeze from a crane beating its wings.
when it storms, the dock we used to
share secrets on floods - my fingers scratch
at my thighs like i am picking apart the wooden planks,
my skin splinters in all the places i have ever
been touched by you.
i fold myself into a ship and sail where you can't
this burns too much to read it back,
and i feel very heavy right now.