• I could fold a million paper stars for you.

    I know you'd tell me that paper kills the environment. I know you'd tell me that I'm wasting my time with this. I know you'd tell me that you'd appreciate some peace and quiet more than this. I know. I know. I know.

    The strip of a long paper is fragile. My fingers are still nimble and deft enough to fold them carefully, still gentle and childish enough not to accidentally crush it. If I become an adult, will my imagination wither and die in return for sensitivity and sensibility? I hope not to forget to hold stars in my palm.

    They say a thousand stars grant you a wish. Any wish. Even though the stars are magic, you could hope for evil. Huh. I have a million and one stars. But I only have one wish.

    I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too. I wish you loved me too.

    Times that by one hundred.

    You did love me. You did love my stars. You did love my fairytale wishes before. Where did you get so bitter? Can I not understand you? Will you not let me comfort you in my mellifluous arms?

    Paper stars are wanna-bes. They know they'll never be the real stars in the sky. They know they'll never even be close to a star sticker on a little kid's test when they get an A. They know they'll be far from perfection. They know. They know. They know.

    But they still try. Maybe that's why. Maybe we're all little different stars.

    (You're a supernovae.)