He is plastic.
Not the plastic of nose jobs
credit cards or electronics.
He is a thousand plastic bags
filled with receipts
blowing through a forest.
She is steel.
No piercings, no cold heart.
She smells of carbon
and stands like skyscrapers
combing the knots out of clouds.
We are paper
and cannot be recycled.
We draw our lives out with markers
and forget the pages
already turned.