i fold you, unfold you, you’re tied in my hands with my imaginary ropes.
i let you down, and take you out. i let you down, only to find you again.
i look at you, at my feet, i stare at you, with my head tilted. i need to scratch you, but i won’t.
i wonder sometimes where i can put you, in which drawer, or on a shelf maybe, not too far, but high enough.
but i let you out. i need to find you a place, without oxygen, so you wouldn’t burn anymore like a dangerous fire. or i’d blow the whole of you in a baloon, with enough helium to get you high, and maybe even to the moon.

meanwhile, i think, i really think, you’d be with my pictures of whatever. always. you with my pictures of whatever…