A million little paper birds drift up, away,
from callused fingers into skies of gray-lace.
Secret things we cannot sway.

Tiny, lovely, whispering is the only way
you fill my head with this light kind of space.
A million little paper birds drift up, away.

And yet, the enemy, three words you cannot say,
wander lazily about your look, your face.
Secret things we cannot sway.

Softly in this time of day,
I want you close in this deepening place.
A million little paper birds drift up, away.

A future in this glistens, so many dreams at bay.
And I don’t want us to ponder, as if that’s not the case.
Secret things we cannot sway.

So I glance at our words, written neatly on these birds, if I may,
and my heart takes up this quickening pace.
A million little paper birds drift up, away.
Secret things we cannot sway.