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Spoken version
A recorded reading of “Pocket-Sized Apology”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I fold my pride along the dotted lines, make aeroplanes of apology. They land like quiet birds, tails stamped with routes I owe. Open one wing—see where I was thin; open the other—where I tried. Unfold this paper’s small confession— a compass rose that leans toward you. Follow the crease I keep. My thumb is inked and slightly torn. I’ll meet you where the needle rests— due west, a corner worn toward home.
Lyrics
paper planes I fold my pride to squares I crease it clean and tight I throw a small apology it glides in quiet light tails mark the routes I owe they circle, then they lie I open one wing wide thin places show in lines I open up the other you see the tries were mine bring me home say I'm home A compass on the paper its rose leans back to you the needle shakes a little but points the same old truth my thumb is inked and torn from tracing what I blew I follow every crease I let the corners guide I read the worn out edge it turns me to your side bring me home say I'm home I missed your door, then learned my maps were made to burn bring me home say I'm home paper planes I land where west runs warm
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