Paper Wings

When the paper wings

of desk letters marked “To: Future Me”

start to thin,

I become the kitchen cabinet,

my rib cage bearing each memory

as timeless stone.

One teacup waits in the back,

still warm with

khaki skirt prayers

we poured into our tree.

The plate remembers

how we shared girlhood,

passed doorway I love yous

like dinner rolls.

The serving bowl cradles

our familiar—

rhythmic leash clicks,

couch cushion rituals.

At seventeen,

I know only porcelain

can hold these gentle stories,

slip from child fingers,

and wear their fissures:

Gray spiderwebs threaded in

the fur of my dog’s eyes,

overexposed polaroids

of a girl fading into new frames,

my sister’s light

spilling into apartment blinds,

faint homesickness leaching

through my purple walls.

But like how paper must crease

to find its folding,

every break

brings us closer to restoration.

At seventeen,

I am learning to brush the tears

from these rims

and welcome the gold.

-A.J