by Evelyn Byrne

We cram our lives into
tight spaces, love dried
and pressed beneath all the
books you’ve ever lent me.
My postcard heart flutters as
I tie and untie knots to
your quivering breath. Origami
sweet wrappers, the closest
thing to skin, stamps like
fingertips. Here, let me
give you my kneecaps, pin
them up on your wall until we
can see again. I have become
butcher and contortionist all
at once. We are still
too much for this paper. I
blow kisses and
hope they last the journey.