If you were to come to me in the form of a paper person linked by the knuckles of other paper people, I would decorate you with thick markers and call you my soldier. I'd crown you in yellow smudges, give you a sword out yarn and some cheap glue.
You came to me in the form of a leftover sports player with knees that needed therapy and a size too big gym shorts. I fell for the sound of you hitting your head off the microwave when we were trying to kiss in my kitchen, the way your hair felt in the spaces between my fingers, how you always took the left sock off before the right. I made you into the paper figure next to mine, the half who's creases matched up perfectly, who we wanted the same exact things as I. If you were to come to me now in the form of water I'd boil you to make tea. I'd put three sugars into you when you beg me for none. I'd make you into some tragedy that I'd hide underneath my bed in the way of nasty journal entries and tired poems. I'd love you like a miracle, like a prayer, when really you are just a guy who loves funny movies and can't wake up for breakfast on time.