Tessellations

There is this infinite black that fills the sky,
and I looked, the epileptic twinkles in the galaxy,
at all those planes mistaken for stars,
the handmade crafts that carry you away from me.

Trust bitten skin at the end of my thumbs,
and how I can just fold my feelings about you into
these eight divides with complete corner folds,
I’ll be flying paper planes for the moon.

-A. (with influence from R.) 

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