When the full moon hit the stained glass window that evening, before the way you looked at me changed to the way you look at me now, I cried.
I know I have a map around here, somewhere, from when I got this lost before, but my voice is cracking and my lips are burnt and my sore throat won't go away because I have spent too much time massaging the tendrils of your tenuousness and not enough time planning what I'll do if it ends.
I'm scared I'm going to float away.
I'm scared you're going to let me.
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