The Paper Man

He fell from the tip of my pen, He fell from the edge of my rhymes, He fell out of my poems, He slipped from between the lines. His lips were made of paper, Unkissable and cold, But his hands were a sonnet So beautifully told. He’s every chapter that I start, Each metaphor I end them with. I dreamt him once and I’ve dreamt him since, His paper smile haunting as a myth. ‘Who are you?’ I ask him, ‘What story’s written on your skin?’ He says, ‘I am everything That is, will be and could have been.’