We can curl our knees
towards us, tightly fitting
ourselves between bookcases
like puzzle pieces with sore
backs for infinite
cups of hot chocolate
but the conversations I remember
best will always be
the ones I have later,
with myself, bouncing
off the parallel walls
in hallways
that offer no answers
as to why I can't
just be brave
because it's the aftermath
that brings the epiphany,
the crunching icy remnants
of what-ifs
shouting that fine line
between bravery
and spontaneity,
and how I can't admit
that I lack the
thing I want most
to be,
since that would require
less thinking
and more doing-
its easier to accept
that reality
and my imagination
will never
be friends
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