Paper Crane

I remember the first time you held me,
set me down,
ran your fingers over my body
without form.
On the hard table, under the weight of your palm,
warm against your skin
I tensed in fright.

It hurt when you turned me over,
folded me with your fingertip,
traced it down my spine,
pushed hard enough to crease my skin.
Our first time was rough,
You were inexperienced when you handled my body,
not realizing how fragile I am.

It hurt when you were rough,
you bent my head too far,
you tore my wings,
you pinched my tail.
But you worked me many times,
until you were gentle,
until I grew attached to you.

I liked it,
the swirls in your fingertips,
the hard edge of your nails,
the soft hills of your palms.
They bore down on my body
and prodded and pressed,
slid and squeezed,
and when you finished,
lifted me,
and breathed life into me.

I flew on your fingertip,
bathed in your palm,
and slept against your wrist.
I shivered when you stroked my head,
kissed my back with your fingers,
and brushed your knuckles under my tail.

Do you still like paper cranes?
You don't fold me anymore.
I don't feel the plush of your fingers
and the lines of your palms,
the sweat of your hands
and the heat of your breath.
Won't you please try to make me again?