papercuts

you open your diary
and there i am:
your imaginary friend
who's walked far

talk to me
tell me what he's done now
stack your triumphs on my head
drape the lei of your tears around my neck
and beckon me with fingers wet
from the well of yourself

close the book
to gather dust
till the next entry swells you heavy
to give birth in my ear;
lift me again from the pages
if only to admire your reflection
in my eyes