You unfolded the origami, piece by piece, explained
it is better to see things as they are, rather than how you wish
them to be. A crease is a memory, a mistake you can’t quite
erase. When I first saw you, I knew you were a map I couldn’t
read, islands imperceptible among many bodies of water.
The shortest distance—we’re always concerned
with the shortest distance; geometry too precise, too
unimaginative. On a large enough map, everything appears
small. From a distance, you resemble everyone I’ve ever
touched. You keep me tucked away—an empty envelope,
edges sharp & exact. We make good shapes. But what else
do we make? On occasion, you unfold me, trace my
periphery. There are sketches you start and don’t know
how to finish. There are others you never begin.
Matthew Heston is a writer and performer living in Chicago. His poems have also appeared in Cacti Fur and Rust + Moth.