I smell the page, and I see
broken pieces of crayons
the wings of paper cranes
sealed by your lips once
wet, in a strand of cotton candy
and I remember
you write in pencil
you leave silhouettes
before you lose a page.
the drops you shed
they’re all dry, wrinkles
I trace on my mother’s face
and your small shoes
hold sahara’s sand warm
on the empty stage, where
marionettes in faded colors
grazed by your hands, dark
from broken tips of chocolate,
lie silenced with severed strings,
inflections of your voice
in every fall
and I lose a page.
your words, unfinished
draw on the pages you left
branches of a winter tree
in a handwriting no longer mine,
and your lanterns swing unlit
brighter in the evening hue
until I hear, on the windowsill
my fingertips making circles,
outlines of your fragile shoulders
your breath peppermint white
when I buried you
in the desert night
and I lose a page.
maybe you were a mannequin
sculpted in my stillest hour,
the crust of sugar on your lips
but a slight imperfection
from my shivering knife.
maybe I heard in the ticks
of our hands unwinding
a merry-go-round
the tune repeating up and down
until the door closed
with you inside, still
and I lose a page.
maybe I was a reflection
in your darkest eyes,
the orphaned prince
of a bedtime story, a lie
you once believed in.
and I disappeared
between your lips
down the stairs
following your breadcrumbs
and your moonlit stones
after your birds nameless
by the pink panes
of my eyes, the windows I broke
a touch of your nose
in every piece,
and I could draw your face
before I lose this page.