Origami Hearts
Our hearts are fragile. Small. Weak. Easily stolen. They keep us psychically living, but as easily as me saying "I love you" to you, they're turned to dust, leaving us crumbling inside. That's why we have to give them carefully to the right people. I know I've given mine to the right person. The person who's locked inside fog but still swimming, still carrying both our hearts, making sure they don't get wet. You are strong, even though the crowds are murmuring about a insane victor-to-be. It doesn't matter. You don't care about what they say, so I won't too.
Our hearts are mere paper folded hastily. Like the origami heart I gave to you in elementary. I remember when you gave it back to me, it was a bird. A crane. Ironically, that is the man that is dictating your fate. I remember when I folded it into a boat, and set it out to sea. I wonder if it's found you. If it's cleared your mind of mist. I wonder if it's reminding you to keep paddling, to remember that you're coming back to me. If you sink beneath the water, if you never come up again, I won't either. I won't, and my heart will be drenched and disintegrating along with you. If the golden crown is fated for your head, I'll carry it for you. I'll protect you. I won't let them put the burden of protecting your family on you. If, when, the trumpets sing for you, I'll be making an origami heart, and I'll be giving it to you.