Paper

Paper

I give you paper first.
It's creased with laughter and a little frayed at the edges.
A stain of jealousy on one corner
our fights a carefully mended tear. 
It's greasy with travel
and it smells like late nights, and date nights; 
and the nights spent turning a new page together.
We give paper because even though it's fragile,
like us, it can last a year.