one by one
as
options dwindle
through my fingers
i keep plucking
petals
(moss will start
to grow
in my eyes) i
stand alone
after
all this time and
i (still) hear music,
those faint edges, tattered rhythms...
i feel hardened
scarred and softer as
i take each delicate one
from its home, a single stem
to
put them together (again) and i
berate my fingers:
keep up.
we have a whole forest
of indecision left
until you
love me...
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