Origami flowers and paper cranes
cloak my desk and litter the floor,
and one more
for each day that you haven’t been mine.

But it’s fine, I’ve more paper.

So I’ll keep folding, and repeat
step one through step eight. But now
it’s getting late and I can hear you
around the corner.
So in order, I’ll rehearse step eight through
fourteen as a means to bridge
the rift at the ridge of my
mind.

I can’t afford to be alone,
adrift inside.

Because I fear if I weren’t folding this paper,
I might foolishly try to manipulate the
stars
in the deep purple sky. My nights spent
mapping a light dotted guide. Then it’s
inside reverse, crimp,
and crease, until it’s one
perfect piece of art.
I fold, in part, because I know
that without this sheet, I would aim,
in vain, to
crease time and space into pretty paper shapes
where I’d reside in the folds with you.

But I am no Asteria, and the stars
are not mine to hold.

So I continue to fold, and
restate step one through step eight
and I’ll wait for your resonance to
dissipate.

I overheard last week that you need a new hobby
and since you know it can't be me,
consider origami.