Kris Reynolds

October 19, 1998 - Washington
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paper cranes

The cranes are all I have, my constant companions

I can’t stop folding them, even my hand is

Shaking at the thought of being abandoned.

My Eve was repeating and it made me feel sick

I was doing this on purpose, all for some kick?

I folded and creased but it all was the same, this same sick feeling only Eve could’ve made,

Every fold has his name, am I making this a game?

When will I stop folding my dumb paper cranes?

It’s me who leaves them out in the open, just trying to find something unspoken

I want to give up, the cuts are burning, but my paper cranes demand my yearning

How many more until I forget?

This pain they’ve caused me I’ve come to regret

Should I let them win? Give them everything I have just to begin?

When will this paper and these folds make me think of anything but this

How I can’t even remember my one stupid wish.
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