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Maybe I shouldn't have looked up too often, molding my being to strain accord with gravity, visioning past the wood only inches away from me, reclined on a bed that housed tragedy and hope. Maybe I shouldn't have beleaguered the hands that would catch me, and maybe the shift—this fall—wouldn't have broken so many bones.
I've domiciled in familiarity, in a dawn formed out of retrospect, forming hoops to maintain that warmth, that contentment, that very placement where life seemed to be in balance—an intelligible distinction, a polarity that doesn't necessarily father a threat, an amalgam of sweetened attachment and bitter unfolding
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