Paper boats drift in the gutter’s stream,

tiny vessels of a childhood dream—

ink-smudged names and folded wings

sailing beneath the breath of spring.

The scent of lemons clings to air,

fresh and sharp and oddly fair,

like sunlight pressed through fingers thin

or laughter where a storm had been.

A drop falls—salt, not rain—

tears that neither cleanse nor stain,

just shimmer in the morning hush

and mingle with the gutter’s rush.

Each paper boat dissolves in time,

edges soft, then lost to grime.

Yet something in their short parade

recalls the joy we never made.

And so the citrus breeze remains,

cutting through the grief like veins,

a tender ache, a quiet note—

the memory of a paper boat.