I stick a note to the wall everyday upon waking
a mere palm-sized piece of paper where I draw a stick eagle  sitting on its stick nest on top of a tall tree
My drawing skills allow me only stick figures
but I supposed it is enough to deduce that the drawing is a bird
And as I leave the door everyday
there is a drawing of an eagle spreading its wings to fly
As I ride public transportation
I leave little drawings of a flying eagle stuck on the seat
and whenever I get home
I place on the door
a drawing of an eagle back in its tree

But when I meet someone
I give them a drawing of a feather
and on every place I sit
every book I read
every time I leave
I shed more paper to stick on their skin
And I know one day it will fall off
but at some point it was this familiar sketch on their body
like a temporary tattoo

Every night before I go to sleep
I draw on the paper—
I write on the paper:
“Thank you” and “I’m sorry”
“It was so nice to meet you”
“It was nice to hang-out”
“I wish you well” and “I miss you”
“We are ever changing”
“We talked today. I will remember that” and “You are important to me”
“Eat well” and “Live well”
“Secrets” and “Wishes” and “Regrets”
“Dreams” and “Fears”
“Love” and “People”
And I will stick them to the ceiling above my bed
as I have done every night since I knew what stars were
All the words I might and might not have said
and felt
Litter them across the ceiling like a constellation
Make them look like a galaxy
because these things are now bigger than me
And I am thankful to have lived them today and yesterday
and the day before that
And I will continue to live with the eagle eye
Looking out for the stars and endless span of sky
and all the things there is to see
and all the things there is to be
I only hope someone will remember the way I stuck a feather to their skin
Maybe some of them are still there



Rain splatters
Wind is howling
voices swept from his bedroom window
Most days it’s the Latin words he pronounces himself
or the next day’s school presentation
But sometimes it’s the questions his head pounds
against his bedroom door
He doesn’t always let them in
Privacy is one of the few locks he has left
but sometimes he lets it open against the chain of the lock
Lets the whispers in
stuffs them in his pillow
Maybe just maybe the dreams will have the answers
maybe it’s just easier to ponder in a land you will forget
Leave it when his curtains let in daylight
mutters to himself all the answers
as the wind sweeps it out the window
Into the brewing storm


Paper people
Paper places
I Fear That I Put so much expectations on A Place
That it has become Nothing More than Fiction
A grocery List that I only Slightly Wish my Mom made:
Flour, Eggs, mountain Dew, catfish, spray Paint and 212 bottles of beer
Had I Always been So foldable?
there is a Crease in This book I am reading
The pages are Filled To the Brim with words
A story someone Wrote
did I Write mine?
I must have
Except even I Can’t Reach some areas Of myself
japanese art Of Paper folding
fold Me Into a Fish
And tides will Still carry Me
fold Me Into A frog
and my Leap Will Only be short
Fold me into A plane
And the Wind Can only Carry me So far
Please Don’t put all your Hopes in me
Paper can Only get you so far
add my Page into a History book
But I can only tell The World so Much
about a Moment in Time
don’t Write your stories On my arms
or My Back
Or my Hands
that Doesn’t make Them any more Real
but Don’t write Them on yours
In fact, don’t write them At all
Live it
Don’t be a paper Person in a Paper Place
staring Only at the Things that could have Been
Because you Are not paper
you will not Break if the rain Splatters against You
and You cannot be Folded so easily at the whims of A hobbyist
And no Pencil marks can Ever stay on your Skin
Because you are Not a mystery
or A miracle
Or A story
Or a Constellation
You are A person
you are Real
And So Am I