This love -- unspoken; shut
like the tight, delicate petals
of a folded flower
strengthened by a handful of hopes
and wishes with each kiss
of paper upon paper
... is unmade the same way,
undone, day by day
one hope; one wish --
each crease a broken kiss
as each petal falls
unfolding love's birthmarks.
Not withered.
Not dead.
Just plainly deconstructed.
Ripped apart
by folded part.
Tearfully alone.
