If you roam around my house,
              look about,
        up & down,
                           you'll find many paper cranes.

When I feel empty, I make so many,
                     and leave them random places.

You can find them here,
                and there,
          pretty much everywhere,
                              lined up on window panes.

I never felt the need to gather them,
                      and I most likely never will.

If I put them all together,
                 made sure it was forever,
           they could withstand the weather,
                             and there would be a thousand.
              
They say with a thousand cranes,
                       a wish is granted in your favor.

But I have no wishes,
               so I'll sleep with the fishes,
           after my hands tremble to the point of refrain
                                  & I can no longer make anymore paper cranes.

Focus.
  It's how perception alters when the
          overlooked explodes with
                                         prominence.

Stretching this vast expanse of past all along.
Smoking tendrils climbing from my mouth.
I only have one face,
                    Plato was wrong.

And kisses linger, but with time, fade away.
I feel my lungs fill with the entirety of it.
Was I only one,
                     *when sculpted from clay?