The Splatters of You:
I love you as if you were folded.
Oragami in form, intreging at each
crease.
But you are not delicate like a paper
crane.
I cannot hang you from twine above my
bed.
And if you were origami I would make your
paper by hand.
A pulpy mache flattened to dry in the
sun.
Taking time to scrape every last morsel
from under my nails.
Firm presses. Integrations of you to
calico sheets.
I saw a man once sitting curbside.
Knees to chin and curved spine.
He srpung up just before downpour.
Scattering chalk on dry cement. Sorbet
displays with tangerine peaks.
A frenzy of colors, like it poured from
him.
As the clouds parted he settled back. Un
sheltered from the rain.
Knees to chin and curved spine. A
chrmoatic osmosis.
Kalidescope swirls collect in cracks,
bringing new life to his scatters.
He placed blank pages ontop puddles.
Dying them unexplained.
I love you in that way.
If you were origami I would dwell on the
patterns of you.
Freckle your corners, creating the
splatters of you.
The knotted scars that punctuate your
skin.
The swift tendancy of your jaw.
I would spare no instance.
And if I were to unfold you, and fold you
again,
I could admire you differntly.
If you grew taddered and freyed like old
origami,
I would crouth near you, knees to chin
and curved spine.
Loving you as if you were folded.
Anticipating the unnoticed; the underestimated lines of you
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