Paper Aeroplane

My fingers shake.
The letter that you wrote me
lay two days upon the table while
I clung onto my memories and
the faded image of a smiling you.
My sweat made the colours run
and dry like the tears my crusted
eyes forgot to shed.

Telepathy did nothing for the stubborn
telephone so the letter followed me to
sleep, clutched tight to my face as I
breathed you in until the
black morning. Do you remember
kissing me in the rain of the November
midnights, clasping my face to yours
with such hunger?
Paper doesn't ache for you as I do.

I will not read your empty words, for if
I do not see them they will fade
and this will end. Through breath and in
blood, till death do us part I will
keep you here and forget about
your angry eyes and the bitterness in
your voice when you spat your last goodbye.
You swore you'd love me, skin to bone
and left me with your envelope and your
withered, clumsy lines.

I'll make a paper aeroplane and fly back
to you, with my crumpled dreams and torn up heart
and you can draw a smile on me again.