She folds in on herself
As if she were made of paper
Lit on fire and blown to dust
She drifts and dances
Watching time pass and people age
Waiting, never changing
Wondering
She folds in on herself
She becomes sky
Like clouds before rain
And the smell of wet asphalt
Dripping a melancholy rhythm
The musical heartbeat of changing seasons
But her leaves never turn
She folds in on herself
Wrapping fragile wings around holes
Where blood used to run
Maybe she used to breathe
Smoke instead of air
She seldom breathes at all
But for the times when she whisper-sings
Songs of happier times
Before she withered like forgotten pages
Full of untold stories
Tucked away to the corner of a room
Her pages tattered and delicate
Waiting for someone to fold her corners
The way she would fold herself
And remember her in that special place
Reserved for memories
That are too much
Too great
To not reread a hundred thousand times
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