like you, I am paper
inside
made of fiber
be it of moral nature
or some flimsy content
that will not ensure a life span
of adventures
just re-imaginings
between lines kept in margins
we are open invitations
to be bathed with ink
or smeared with blankness
with emotions as punctuations
dreaming to be airplanes,
or sailboats
folded to escape
(to where, remain unseen)
not knowing that we corrode
whenever we kiss the waves
or free-fall weightless
into anonymity
so should we wait?
(July 11, 2012)
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