you give me keyholes that I
somehow always had keys for fit
and I find inside the boxes,
closets,
chests, rooms,
a million half-answered,
half-completed questions
mine or yours?
I realize I fear what I have
stumbled upon, I am
afraid
to be just another
along the line
afraid
to not be special enough
to stand out
afraid
to remind you of
the numerous
stringless before-me's.
What if you look upon me
as our hearts entwine; as you grip
my hands so tight you don't
want to let go
but forget the reasons why and
merely see
what used to satisfy you;
which isn't me.
afraid
to be just a satisfaction.
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