i'm not sure who you are yet.
you might taste like cigarette smoke. your winter coat might have four-holed buttons and weak thread that frays anytime i pick at it.
your heart might be made of broken promises and your head full of superglue, and your hands hold out to me a jigsawed collage that creaks when you tell me who made it.
you might move like a ragdoll, flailing around because gravity hasn't decided which way to pull you yet. i hope it pulls you closer to happiness and i hope we collide on the way there, our legs trailing behind us, chests forward in anticipation.
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