what it was like to be alone
and bristle at the prospect
of giving up that freedom.
It is a memory tingling at the edges of my lips
like a shoulder that aches before the rain
that makes me draw the afghan of amnesia close
and rock in a chair until the night comes.
I am done with mystery
that leaves me regretting asking the questions.
I would rather drop my yeses with a clatter
onto the floor and walk away
than give up everything
for almost nothing myself.
Tomorrow when I wake
I will gasp at the thought
that I've given up words that matter
and laughter until I am breathless
and taking in the smell of juniper
and the true nature of white pine.
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