My man is made of paper,
He is the blank page I write my dreams on,
And re-write my dreams on.
It gets complicated,
Or likes to think he is,
But I know each fold and crease of him,
I’ve traced them a million times with my hands
With my mind.
I try hard
To smooth the edges, the angular corners
That frustrate as I attempt to follow the instructions, like
Refuses to bend at every turn
Until, suddenly, there he is
My paper man,
Three dimensional and beautiful,
Words, skin, love, paper dreams, within my hands.