And 

      so

      both 

      our 

      naked 

      bodies 

      fold into  

      each other one last time. 

      I’m an Origami swan rippling 

      along the lake of your skin.

 

I contour all of my edges into the nooks of your body, but still

you sigh, and I miss the comfort of my own bed. 

 

My papery skin is wrinkled (an ugly duckling more than a swan),

bent too many times into triangles and squares. And still 

 

my shape never looks quite like the final product you imagine.

So I unfold over and over in your hands,

 

your fingers nimbly aligning each of my limbs into the creases.

And when my body is finally pulped,

 

you throw me in your heart's wastebasket.

Without your flattening, I can once again feel

 

the uneven waves of my own skin.