i. 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
ii. 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.
iii. 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 follow
this burns too much to read it back, and i feel very heavy right now.