Calling memory, I take and fold,
fold you into a shape I can hold.
Origami feels almost appropriate to me,
maybe the paper cut could feel whole, feel free.
Yet to figure what will be
still, deep down, frightens me
even the most tempered, weathered heart at sea.
When memory is what remembers me,
perhaps I’ll fold you into a sturdy boat
and see, through tears, if you could float.
I could fold you into a swan or a dove,
but you might rise and drift above.
I could fold you into a beautiful crane,
one that pours down sorrow, pain, and rain.
Or a rose, its petals catching every light,
lasting through the day, then into night.
I might fold you into something that might stay,
hold you near, never ever cast you away.
But memories are sacred still to me;
every crinkle I try to hold, yet to set free,
every crease and every fold,
from days of youth and now growing old.
Lily drops and water ripples,
lollipops melting on youth’s tongue and lovers’ *******
until sweetness turns to ocean‑tears,
crashing waves—a brave face stained by years of fear.
It would not feel right
to fold you in the night.
So I hold you close in every right,
cupped hand, eyes drawn shut and tight,
and remember what once felt dear,
fleeting in the hands of May each year.
I close my eyes
and let the moment drift far and near.
Distance is only the space
between hand and heart we trace.
Before you fade,
let me absorb you once more, unafraid.
I lay myself upon a bed of thorns
just to keep these memories
from falling by dawn.
Endless nights I lie awake,
thoughts of the past I cannot shake.
They come and go, they haunt my day
sometimes I wish they’d stay away,
sometimes I wish they’d consume me whole
from fingertip to core, from soul to soul.
Oh, my origami art,
sometimes I think life would be simpler
with an folded origami heart.