A Paper Airplane

Maybe she could make a paper airplane, and soar through my dreams. Would she see everything I've ever seen? Would she feel the shades I've felt? Maybe if she made her paper airplane, she'd wear it on her sleeve, and take me for a gentle ride every now and then. We'd glide among the delicate slow flakes and origami paper hearts. Maybe if she made her paper airplane, she'd have her doubts on flying. But I would show her differently, because to see the shadows you have to be by the light. Maybe if she made her paper airplane, she'd leave me far behind. She would sail the world in her sea of air, and eventually wave goodbye. Maybe it'd be better that way. Or maybe I'm too lost. Maybe if she made her paper airplane she would set out to find me through the whirlwind of confusion, and the cyclone of self-doubt. Why a paper airplane? Why not one of stone? Because maybe she prefers it that way, soft and adventurous. Not tethered to the fabric ground where hundreds of planes have been lying, abandoned for years. Never flying. Never tasting the freedom that the paper airplane gives. They become glued to the surface by reality. They face alone the creatures of burden and puppets of sorrow. Maybe that's where I am now. Grounded. Imprisoned in my paper airplane. Will I be found by the ones up above? Will she make her paper airplane to rescue mine? It's not for me to say.

Maybe she could make a golden chariot, and ride alongside the sun. She would brighten dreary days and lift heavy hearts. Maybe if she made a golden chariot she could let the silky sand run through her pearl fingers as she coasted along the deepening shoreline. I would watch as she rode. I would wave. Maybe if she made a golden chariot she would find happiness - a compass through the journeys she'd have. And the sounds she'd see. Maybe if she made her golden chariot she would invite me. To ride with the sun might be a grand vision, or a hope better left unsaid.

Maybe she could make a rocket ship of brass. It would clink and clank like most brass things do, but it would work just fine. Maybe if she made her rocket ship of brass she could tell me of the moon, and what was on its dark side. Would she explore the craters and the creatures inside? Would the imagination of her yarn fingers make its way to pierce the core and free the treasures inside? Maybe she would make a rocket ship of brass simply to impress, what with its gears and cogs and knobs and gizmos, all whirling simultaneously in a glorious synchronized waltz. Maybe she would whisper in my ear as she flew past, in her rocket ship of brass. What would she say? Do I dare ask? Maybe she wouldn't whisper after all, if she made her rocket ship of brass.

But maybe she would make a paper airplane, and gently soar through my dreams.

I'd let her.