I am a brittle listener, but now I know:

You saw the smallest things. With toothpicks you’d twirl and fan and build a tiny house.

I crashed and burned through woods. I couldn’t see one leaf, one piece of bark. I grew them in my head. I brought them into being and took them out. I was a lord.

We grew. We intertwined. We pushed and pulled each other straightening here and bending there. We lived.

I became small with you so I could dive into your glass. Do backstroke while you tended us small things.

To balance on a spoon, to wear lungs on our back, to center on a pinpoint deep inside while falling from great lengths

After you left,

we did that.

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