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Jun 2016
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.
marina
Written by
marina
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     Greenie, 1487, Kurt Kanawa, SS, Mary Winslow and 5 others
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