Every Day in the Past

We pressed each day like a paper crane,

its creases holding the map to remain.

Not a moment apart, not a seam in the air,

till mountains unfolded, and left your side bare.

Then moonlight became the ink we would borrow

to write the same sentence across every tomorrow:

How to arrive without ever leaving?

How to be both the wound and the healing?

What could fade, has. The paper grows thin.

Only one crease still holds the scent of your skin—

a day pressed in bloom, a vow without sound,

that unfolds in the dark, when no one’s around.