With my only desire,
I rearrange myself in a metamorphosis of paper.
Virginal, white, untouched, unwritten, waiting, wishing for a pen.
It must be a sharp tipped pen, firmly pressing against my plenary wooden heart, leaving permanent traces.
Its substance must not rust, for it might grind and screech my fragility.
The ink should be blue.
Not red, not black.
Deep, royal and intense saphire-blue.
Nevertheless, if I am but a piece of paper, rest your head on me, wrap your things in me, leave your marks on me, paint a thousand words, until I smile.
My skin may be folded, ripped, glued back from microscopic bits and pieces, checked for spelling and grammar mistakes, revised and corrected, erased, and, eventually - underlined for most significant aspects of a timeless thesis.
Useless for you, thrown away careless into the garbage-can, discontented of such mellow handcraft. → You can do better! whispers the Ego
Someone's going to take out the trash, along with the mushy piece of paper.
She will end up cremated and scattered away by the slothy winds of Autumn.
And when the slow drops of rain will fall with tingling splashes upon the longing desert, you would know she has come home.
But not our anymore
With my only desire, I'd wish to be your piece of paper and I'd be frantic about it!