If I could hold time in my hands,
rewind it like a ribbon,
back to the edge,
before the storm unraveled me
would I?
I dream of the softness
that might have been.
A life untouched by his hands,
where the mirror never broke.
But then I think
of the eyes I’ve met
mirrored with my own pain,
the trembling hands I’ve held,
the words I knew how to say
because I had already drowned
and learned to swim again.
To undo it would be to silence
the voice that reached
someone else in the dark.
Was it fate,
or is that just the shape
pain takes when we give it meaning?
So I stand in the doorway
between selfishness and purpose,
and still don't know
if I'd walk through it again
if I could.
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