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.


The End

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