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doors open

because that's what they're built for

but hearts only get exposed

in an accident.

In each case,

we have to decide whether to go

or stay

and at the moment

the world looks like

a roadside with scattered ashes

and my feet are too tender

to walk over them.

But my heart still beats

so it means I'll survive

if I bargain with all the words I read in the newspapers

that are trying to tell me I can't.

But I can be in the doorway, right?

I can watch the wreckage

with a wounded chest

and hopeful feet,

waiting for the moment

where both will meet.

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