Dead Paper

"My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering..."

*all collages and poems are original works by Dead Paper

no one believed there was life in the dark corners of the ceiling,where the moonlight wouldn’t go, where dreams fell asleep and dreamnt.but if you looked close, there were doors, and beyond the doors, worlds.maybe i will see them again, someday, when i find the way back.
leftover sparksfade quicklyon paperafter thoughtsof all the afterthoughtsI try to savecutting outmemories andwaiting for the glueto dry. 
heartsextractedfor each otherwarm and dripping,a cycle of lonelinesscomingto an end.
it’s peculiar,the power of dustfound in the cold spaceswe dream abouteyes openand breath heldhoping the snow-globewe live inmay someday settle. 
a rush of waveson the skin,a burn of bloodin the heart.diving headfirst,holding our breath. 

the depth of a universelooking down at usas we try to find our waywith shoes untied. 
soda pop on the tongue, the fizz andburn in my lungs, this condensation onmy skin; American summer sun be gentleand hold me quietly as I try to remembermyself.
i never felt as helpless as i did when i was nine and you were tenand you picked him over me and i saw you hold his hand and whispersomething that i didn’t hear but wished i did and then you hidwith him behind the old oak tree and i pretended not to carewhich was silly because i cared a lot, and i thought about howyour hand would feel warm inside mine and i thought about the timei sat close to you and i was scared, i could smell your hair and it smelled like flowers and i wanted to scream out how you made me dizzy inside my stomach and my head but i didn’t and instead i scribbled 
i have a secret for you 
with my finger into the sand of the sandbox but i knew you’d never see it because it started to rain, which i thought was odd since it was still sunnybut it did, and my nose and eyes were all runny, and my face was all wet.
pleasedon’t look back.the world isonlygetting olderand soon,even the sunwill fallasleep.
we are artists,
of the mundane;
feel our touch
and remember.