tender little things

It’s like slow dancing on tectonic shifts. Tightrope walking between the masts of a rocking ship. It’s the gentle reorganization of the world to make space for something worthy and altering.

The most precious things are fickle. They can crumble in your hands. But the most resilient things aren’t the ones that have remained unbroken, they’re the ones that learn how to bend. So perhaps if you want to keep something, you don’t protect it from the elements, you expose it to the world and let it become impervious. Maybe there is no sense in worrying about fracturing something beautiful, maybe you’re meant only to enjoy its loveliness, in the many forms it will take.

Maybe much of my life is foolhardy and ill advised. I could be convinced that I move far too fast and make myself dizzy. It could be that I throw myself into shallow waters and hit bottom without recourse. But I don’t know how to be anything but an asinine, hotheaded human with a proclivity for breaking my own heart. And for all the times I’ve been eaten alive, I find gratitude still that my soft edges haven’t hardened, in this moment, when my imprudent nature lends itself to succumbing to you.

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