A life lived

My life is lived solely to find
a love strange and spectacular and unique
like ravens beating their wings out of sync
and flying upside down, who are then
like adrenaline junkies jetting through the skies
in their formula eight, nine and ten planes
each the size of paper aircraft I used to fold when I were adolescent
with pilots the size of miniature giraffes
all neck and no opposable thumbs

A love whose skin reeks of rose petals and incense
and leaves behind bouquets of oil scented paper tissue flowers
for me to follow and collect
then burn on cold evenings when there is no one sharing my bed
because there never is
but the bouquets are still forming a path
that I am yet to reach the end of
each found is more comforting than the last
and sometimes they have notes or photographs

Whose arms are like origami encircling my body
but there is nothing fabric like about the soul
whose wefts are woven through my heart strings
creating the most wonderful tapestry
and I am urged to slice at mine own skin
where I can see the spaces between my ribs when I am outstretched
to insert long handled tweezers, or chopsticks
and pull the threads so everyone may see
the artwork you have made of me

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