A wrinkled sheet of sugar paper
smudged with fingerprints
where you creased
and folded
and creased and folded
and launched the plane above my head
where I could not reach.

Stiff, clean cardboard
scored and folded
with cleaner, larger fingertips.
An immaculate boat that sails
proudly away from us only to catch
and bob in the shallows.

Your scissors cut my paper
so I must chase downstream
snagging dirty knees on brambles
to free our boat.

Together we collect paper:
certificates, rental contracts,
rejection letters, job offers
and for me, a drawerful of paper roses,
one for every year.

Twenty roses later
and it is my scissors that tear
into the Tesco value scribble
that tells me you love another.
My scissors that shred
and scatter our paper memories
ready for my self-loathing vacuum cleaner.