for just one day—any day— of her life.
Before me, after me, grand day, quiet one,
it matters not to me. To see her, at last,
through eyes unclouded by youthful judgment,
free from the weight of my own confusion,
unburdened by my choices
—chosen with proud precision.
Perhaps then, I would understand the woman
behind all my heartbreaks, and I would
no longer be memory's workhorse.
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