Paper

The sun rises,
The birds return,
And I lie here,
Waiting for the
Next little pain.

I am made
Of thinnest paper,
Each new tear
Erasing the me
I used to love.

As predictable
As morning itself,
So much so, that
I almost don't feel it;
Until I do.

Am I the mother,
Or am I the child?
I no longer know.
There is but one thing
Of which I am certain;

You are the man
Who tears.