A week stolen and
Today too tired
It shuffled and stacked itself
Sleeping in tomorrows "in" box
Waiting to be held and
Yet dreading the resulting decision
Stamped and labeled and
Put with all the other papers
Some crisp and creamy and whole
Some with edges torn and bent
And some yet to be taken from a pad
Why is it the bent and crumpled paper
Is treated so harshly?
Scratch pads and jotted notes that hold no future
No future with the writer except phone numbers
Sadly found again in the
washing machine's tumble with shirts
And socks and jean pockets and gum past its flavor
Should we not instead treat it gently
And with respect and embellish with
Ink so fine it would not bleed through
To the other side and steal from the only beauty left
From a side no one sees
And then folded and kissed and sent
On its way to someone who will cherish
The words and letters inside though
We no longer hold a desire or need for it
Paper and a girl's heart are not all that different
And sometimes, dear friend, I wish that wasn't so.
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