Still

I will still stumble over the moments
you pulled me in.
Where I was tangled in nets,
and wires,
and seaweed,
and veins

of your pain
disguised as affection

and I fell,
fast,
suddenly,
still

after all this time.
Not “always”.

I’m making something
out of nothing
and I know this,
but your hands were tangled in my hair
and when I told you more
you didn’t hesitate to
pull me back in.

When you pulled back,
somehow it wasn’t

over.

And maybe, it isn’t—-

Maybe, for now,
we should just remain:

incomplete.

Still,
after all this time.

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