Stone-cold eyes formed into origami,
his forehead creases fold into sections of intimacy.
She asks the trees about the possibility of
scrawling her name on a paper heart,
like lovers carving their names in the wood.
If she taped the two crooked pieces together
would they be together forever?
Duct tape fixed her last pair of knock-off
converse, and she saw him duct-tape his
broken binder the other day.
Duct tape fixes everything.
Her maple syrup tastes salty, like tears,
and last night she heard the leaves moaning.
She thought it was due to an oncoming storm.
The trees didn’t want to tell her
that paper is just paper.