Origami

There are no back up plans for these kinds of things.

Even the romance of stalking you
won't cling to me.
It was there and it held me
and there were shifts in routines
and like incremental poison
I took it in and
swallowed the paths
that went with it.

It was so fashionable
and still this strange, makeshift innocence,
black sails or not.
I didn't realize this ability
I had in slaying ghosts.
I saw you in water,
on the spines of the books
and when I rolled up my pants
for the snow.
Alas, the time machine.

The cramps in my hands
so tenderly held by the writing.
The ink along the inside cover
and the scar still lurking
on my back an eighth of an inch thick.
I can once or twice
admit to the secreting of tears.
The fascination of burning through wetness.
A napkin rose, greasy spoon origami
amidst ball point shafts and
the shackles of paper clips.
Slowly disfigured
and wilting like it was alive.