paper rose

on our date in the restaurant

while I topped up my lip gloss

in the cracked tile bathroom

you made me a rose.

it was entirely paper

shaped from the napkin 

from your Carling spillage

so it smelled a little off,

paper leaves and paper petals

blossomed from a paper stalk,

your friend once told you

it makes the girls talk

and the old couple near us

applauded your efforts,

dubbed you a romantic,

told me to hold tight,

told me you’re a keeper

because you made a rose

entirely from paper but

I’m not sure that’s right.

we were a paper couple

with paper foundations,

pretending to be flesh and blood.

but you were already crumpled

your creases overwhelmed me,

I did what I could.

the marks of life stain our paper skin to date

your coffee marks, my lipstick amalgamate,

with your burn scars, my blood stains

and that is who we are.

our foundation cannot be your used paper napkins

I don’t think you see—

you have my paper heart

I now keep my real one for me.

I desperately cling to the frayed paper edges,

distant remains of my paper relationship

with a paper boy who rips himself apart,

breaks his own paper heart—

return to our paper start.

where is my rose

from back at the restaurant?

I can no longer say.

I do miss my rose

though I’ve now left the restaurant

I think it has blown away.