I guess, in a parallel universe,
this is the one where we stayed together,
not knowing the shearing pain of our love
unravelling from our ribs,
the panic of wandering after the red thread
gathering the mess in our hands,
as if we are Perseus tracing his way out from the Labyrinth.
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Fickle Fate,
why did you make this love so good
it could only be a myth?
Why can’t every part of me,
every cell split across every timeline,
know them?
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The process of winding my heart back into its cage is torture,
it beats against my palm, fraying in my hands.
I guess the only solace is knowing that someplace somewhere,
we are still entwined,
in a galaxy where there is room for a mirrored version of our time.
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In reality, I hope that I can make you happy, somewhere,
and that you don’t get too tangled trying to navigate
this ache.
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Art by Zhenya Katava and Neus Bermjo - V #119 (2019) - found on Pinterest
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The Word Not World Series (WNW) is an interactive anthology where, once a week, I share a photo and peers give me words that inspired them. Their words inspire poetry, like this one. This poem was inspired by “fate,” by @uncoveringblissreads . Thank you for your inspiration!