If you were made of paper, would I be able to love you the way I do? If you were made of paper would, you melt into my arms, and your weakening knees fold closer to the ground? Would we be able to undo the creases that you’d have to wear like scars for the time to come?
If you were made of paper, would I be able to hug you tight and squeeze you into my chest to never let go? Would you crumble and break into a wavering shadow of that what is broken? Would it hurt? Could I be gentle and not pull you too close together?
If you were made of paper, could I run my fingers down the side of your face? Would I be able to neatly sweep the fragile strands of your hair behind your ears? Would you feel the touch of my skin the same way you do now? Would the strand of hair break and rob us of such moments to come?
What about the Jhumkas I’d get you from my wanderings around the streets of Purani Dilli? Could you wear them and not have their weight tear your skin? Would we be able to put it back together? Do they even make paper earrings?
What if I ever made you cry? Would the skin on your face melt away with the tears? Would my apologies undo the destruction left by the deluge? Would it bear anew? Would I always be able to make you happy? Would we not shed our weights in joy? Would we not lament in pain?
What would I see when I looked into your eyes? Would they light up when they saw me? Would your pupils dilate as I came closer? Would your heart pump faster as your vessels dilate, speaking to you of my arrival? Would they go back into place when the moment of intensity turns into a sombre moment of sleepy wakefulness as I run my fingers through your hair when you lie on top of me?
Would I love you if you were made of paper? Would I be brave enough to watch you change? Would I be able to love you the same?
I cannot know.
