Paper Wings

The white frame on my desk 

holds an entire ocean

cradled by lava rocks,

kissed by rotating sunsets

and hanging stars.

Warm banana bread

keeps our tongues hostage,

mingles with the salty air

out an open window of our Jeep.

We stand in the raised palm 

of Haleakalā,

meeting the clouds for the first time

with hesitant thrill 

and rosy cheeks.

But the journey down her arm

felt like driving in reverse

on the right road.

My eyelids only began to fall

when we did,

the seatbelt holding me back

from leaning into her curves.

Now when my fingers grasp 

the white shore

and come away with dust,

I remember those days

of being above the sky

and wish the clouds and I 

had never met.

-A.J