If people are made of paper then we're all fragile too

When we bend our creases never flatten, always at risk of tearing.

We burn just as quickly, whatever scribbled on our surfaces erased, destroyed.

We don't last in the scheme of things, but that's just how it is.

We fold ourselves up and cast ourselves out into the air, below the ground, and across the rippling horizon.

But in due time, we all end up floating down here.

Afraid of falling to the ground, but as scared of rising too high.

I can see someone familiar a few feet above me, suspended in their life alone.

I don't know why they are floating there, how long they've been there, or if they will ever come down.

In all honesty, I've forgotten how I've been up here myself.

I've forgotten what I was so afraid of and why I wanted to keep on floating.

I'm not so far above the ground that falling would break me like I thought.

I'm not so low that I feel ashamed of floating in the first place.

I feel as if I'm slowly descending, no longer prey to empty spaces lifting me off solid ground.

There are paper people in rushing waters, yelling to me

"You'll float, too. You'll float again. We all float down here, my friend."

And yes, it's likely I'll float again. But no one floats forever.

No one floats forever.