When you first told me you loved me,
I didn’t believe you.
But you managed to convince me,
when every time I tried to fold myself away from you,
you were unwilling to let me go alone.

You careered into the depths of my bends,
and I believed that you did love me.
This poem might be proof that you loved me.

But darling, paper can only be folded so many times,
before it becomes too compact,
and sits defiant of your efforts.

And all that's left is to
use your hands to try and smooth it over.
But creases can never be removed.  
Which is okay,
because some stories are meant to be told.

I said some stories

Like the time you spent
rearranging the furniture to our bedroom,
while I was busy rearranging the space of my heart.  
It seemed impossible,
but you managed to find a place
for that worn, leather chair,
just like I found space, again, for you.
    
You pushed my white desk neatly into a corner;
like the bends of your knees
tuck perfectly into the crooks of mine while we sleep.  
The bed was shifted from one wall to another,
thus uncovering the window
that lets in the first sunlight of each dawn,
and I could finally see the differences between us in their entirety.

but differences  are not secrets, dear
and I have met enough hurtful people to know
that ignorance is rarely blissful.  

To rearrange may not be a virtue,  
but god should bless those
with the patience of perspective.

It wasn’t long after
that my heart ate its way out of you,
and started attacking strangers.
Its tirade quickly stifled
by an avalanche of lies
that no amount of light
could have ever revealed.