Origami Hearts

I swim in pitch black seas,
flaming stars dotting the depths. 
The seeds of figs slowly creep
into trees of metal
and stone leaves. 

Eyes became dim,
recognition hazy, 
minds foggy
and bones brittle. 

I live in memories,
of the taste of the layer of sweetness
that envelopes the pits of cherries. 
I sweat under imaginary German suns,
watching as someone else
is writing with chalk on gravel
and leaving spaces in the middle of letters. 
I pretend to walk under clear skies,
complaining and begging for ice cream.

My origami heart is folded
and creased. 
All our origami hearts have 
tears 
and tears
and tape
and little strings with buttons attatched
that hang off at the ends. 
An ocean of golden liquid
pools at the bottom of
our papery organs, 
but the paper doesn’t become 
limp
and weak. 
The golden water spreads 
upward,
through our bloody veins
and into the core of our solid bones
until we are filled 
completely 
with 
golden water. 

We swim in snow white clouds,
bright pink sea animals flecking the creamy surface. 
The seeds of oranges burst up
into trees of silver
and green vines.