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You have my love, but the littlest piece of it.

The piece that dreams of what could have been, or should have, or, if the cards had dealt differently, or the dice and landed elsewise, would have been.

You have my story, but the littlest piece of it.

A chapter in the story of who I am, and who I was. A chapter bound with a beginning and end. A chapter concluded, resolved, and without foreshadow.

You have my heart, but the littlest piece of it.

A piece of flesh it will beat without, it will dream without, and love without. A piece to be remembered in scar tissue and bruising, in dull aches on cold mornings, in the sum of who I am, who I became.

You have pieces, little pieces of me,

nothing more.


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