Fit

I waded through rivers of tears and crawled through banks of desperation. No words fit the feelings; it was as if my mouth couldn’t make the shapes to form them. Minute and second hands stuck together because time evaded me. Hands and lips and skin stuck together because passion swallowed me. Everything was sticking except for the very thing I tried to keep in one piece. No matter how I clutched and pushed and believed, it always fell apart. It couldn’t take the quiet, salty river or the cold, muddy banks. It chipped away at itself as I tried to force two very different edges into one painfully straight seam. Now I can only hold one in each hand, desperately believing that it was better than nothing at all. Foolishly believing that one day, they would fit.

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