If you were a paper boat and I were too, 
we'd sail where the sky spills its silver hue.
Not knowing the shores that might come to greet, 
we’d let the wind choose which paths our bows meet.

Made from pages of different tales we’ve known, 
still stitched by the same soft wrinkle of home.
Your folds from a map that’s kissed by rain, 
mine from a letter still warm with a name.

Through puddle-lakes and ribbon streams, 
we'd paddle through the stitched-up seams.
Breathing in the wet earth’s sigh, 
and flowers whispering as we pass by.

If the water curved your edges thin, 
I’d smooth you back, draw your corners in.
And when my spine sagged from the weight I bore, 
you'd mend my hull till I sailed once more.

We’d dance where moonlight braids with the tide, 
and stars weave lanterns that the waters guide.
As fleeting as breath on a winter pane, 
yet steady as roots that no storm can strain.

They say, to send a paper boat adrift downstream 
is to send your hopes into someone’s dream.
Each ripple sketches the course we have crossed, 
each crinkle guards the treasures the waves once lost.

In the simple charm of paper and crease, 
we’d find the art of turning small things into peace.
For every journey, no matter how far, 
begins with two boats beneath the same star!

- Neha Sharma