Déjà-vu

You leap out of paper.
The familiar curves of you written
Contort to meet my finger tips,
Across a glass wall.
The sensation races down nerves
Searing a mark, branding soft flesh.
A thousand paper boats set sail at dusk
On the flaming waters that consume you.
They drown, each one of them.
He who set them there, had a plan;
For things that just cannot belong. 

(Penned Feb 27, 2009)