Ode to A Paper Swan

Oh, paper swan, I’m sorry that you won’t survive. I’m sorry that you’re just a mimicry of the real thing, too close to it to not know what you’re missing.

Oh, paper swan, the edge of your wing is sharp and bloody; it’s never been your fault. You can only be what you were made to be.

Oh, paper swan, I can unfold you and no one will remember that you had existed. You will be only half a memory in my mind, forgotten in a second.

Oh, paper swan, your beak is slightly crushed already. If temporary was tangible, it could only be you.

Oh, paper swan, I place you in the palm of my hand and your weight is barely noticeable. Your thin neck stretches out, proud and strong, and your wings almost strain to fly.

Perched Photography