My Sestina.

Paper airplanes fly
as if they’re safe in motion.
Floating through invisible waves
as their wings whisper.
And with my second
thought, it falls like rain.

My eyes are caught on the rain
and the time flies
so slow. I lost count of the seconds.
I’m caught up in this e- motion
it falls into like whispers
of separated, tainted, waves.

Memories ebb and flow like waves
or tiny quiet ripples of rain,
leaving one last whisper..
One that is quieter than flies
on walls, lost from all motion
besides the ticking second.

First feels way better than second
Best, is like hands that wave
and don’t recollect, just a motion.
One that is worthy of reign,
noticed like dirty flies
lingering in your whisper.

The buzz is quiet like the whisper
you’re too proud to use. Second
chances are below the flies
on your body, bruised by waves,
and pulled apart when it rains.
You’re stained by the motion.

But the motion
wont move me, my whisper
remains, drowned out by the quiet rain.
Pits and pats with every half a second.
And I want to give in to the waves,
out to sea. Brought down, but I’ll fly.

Wings of flies are fragile, so they stay in tune with the motion
of salty ocean waves, as they suffocate my whisper.
It hurts for a second, but then I am the rain.