i’m told that if you
fold a piece of paper in half 42 times,
the result is long enough
to reach the moon. somewhere
you hover between 33 & 34 folds.
i pleat the first crease.
you enfold me in your arms
divided by the delicate murmur of
electricity & hushed breaths.
the city unfolds
from daylight to dusk.
a car whizzes by.
we never speak of this moment.
i seal the fourth crease.
we are engulfed by the gentle
hiss of the radiator,
the muted hum of the TV screen. you reach for the
power button. i grab your hand.
after seven creases
the paper is too thick to fold further.
i unravel it & see a boy tango
with the space between static & saltwater.
in the margins, i scribble your name —
Luka. Luka. Luka.
the bridge unwinds into music
& then nothing. the car
whizzes by & the city unfolds
from gentle whispers to muted static
& you reach for the power button
but no one grabs your hand. if i were to
fold this into an airplane &
throw it off the Golden Gate,
i wonder how far it would fly.