Been here, too.


They told stories of days long ago.
Their words came together like Cinderella or magic.
But as my years increase at a pace I can't compute,
I wonder of their tales.
The pieces are missing and crooked.
Or maybe the pieces fit too perfectly.
They must have loved and lost.
They must have grieved and despaired.
In addition to the rest: the castles, the riches, the dreams,
Where were their hurts?
The stories that ache and leave wounds long-sore?
Their novels are intricate complexities with chapters left untold and unwritten.
Those are the pages I long to hear,
when the world shifts quickly.
Remind me you've been here, too.

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