Folded notes can flit about on the page,
bundling together to make a whole,
but the secrets will still be trapped inside.
The waves of your hands
swirl and eddy as you rush to conceal
the struggling words,
hushing them away forever.
But words are meant to be spoken.
Silken rivers of them, flowing
off the tongue like lava from a recent eruption.
The folded notes pulse, a heartbeat
that you long to ignore
because it’s your own,
but can’t ignore.
Because it’s your own.
One day it will all unfold on you.
Your life unravelled and examined
down to the faintest fingerprint
on the glass tumbler
you use every night to rinse your mouth.
Removing the aftertaste of bitterness
that has worn you down
inch by inch
over the sepia tones of your life.
The sepia that could have been lifted
by tending to that single bright rose
that you left to wilt
in the burning sun and stinging winds.