Like origami with neat folds and diverting lines, there's little room (in love) for rearrangements.
Creased centers can't be unfolded.
Crisp seams can't be undone.
You can make something new, but the lines that were, can always be retraced.
Without having you here is like living with a ghost.
We'd lived with ghosts for years, but this one haunts silently.
I see you in my life even though you're not there - a crease on the sheets, a wrinkle where your shirt always hung from the back of the chair.
I can't unsee you.
You're gone now, and although my pages are weathered, they turn all the same.
They turn and turn and bring hesitation to my feeble, creative hands. The ones that long for a new thing while craving that swan with the broken neck.