Every night I try to press myself
into the pages of my favorite book,
and every night I realize that the spine
is too weak to hold onto all the extra vowels.
So instead,
I tear out every single page.
I fold them into paper airplanes,
each with my lip stain on the wing,
and I scatter them in your yard.
I watch every one glide and soar
until it crashes, even after I've
woken the neighbors. Even after
your parents have called the police.
Even after you stand in front of me,
so close that all I can do is crush them
against your chest.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
Every night I try to press myself
into the pages of my favorite book,
and every night I realize that the spine
is too weak to hold onto all the extra vowels.
So instead,
I tear out every single page.
I fold them into paper airplanes,
each with my lip stain on the wing,
and I scatter them in your yard.
I watch every one glide and soar
until it crashes, even after I've
woken the neighbors. Even after
your parents have called the police.
Even after you stand in front of me,
so close that all I can do is crush them
against your chest.
Edited QUITE A BIT
Request permission to use this poem