leaving home is delicate.
soon it’ll have been a year
and more will form in the rear
view as something intricate,

like the little bundle
wrapped up in the road ahead,
still just something that we’ve said
my arms are meant to cradle.

resting at a quiet stop,
with paths slowly opening
up for loved ones to follow—
fast, far—this is happening
is all i think. i can drop
the heavy prompt to wallow

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