Tissue Paper Thoughts.

I carry fresh thoughts of you in my pocket,
folded in pink tissue paper,
the kind we used to roll into balls, and call roses.
I number each wannabe-rose thought,
to file in pillowcases when my pockets bulge.

[192; I like the way that you turn the rustling into lullabies.]

I thought about stringing them together at the corners,
and hanging them row by row in my windows.
I plotted a map of sunrises through my house,
so I knew which room to start with.
But instead, I decided to never hang curtains.

[168; I like it when you call me Sunshine.]

I made them tiny, white cotton kitestrings,
and tied them to my fingertips.
I held them in the breeze just to feel them shake,
and wondered if they would find you,
if I ever let them go.

[127; I like how you never remind me that I'm scared of heights,
when I tell you I want to fly.]

I bought a book that showed me how to fold origami,
so that I could fold my thoughts more creatively.
I practiced folding paper boats,
but they sank in my bath water.
Maybe they were beautiful enough already.

[102; Because you're already perfect.]