Underneath the dogwood tree practicing its snowfall dance to a Baltimore Oriole rehearsing his solo deep into the night, I dream of the distance your feet must travel to reach the spot where we finally meet. Every man who hurt you a hard stone pressed against bare soles, every "I Love You" the corner of spiteful furniture that stubs a toe, every bad decision you couldn't walk away from a muddied puddle that stays wet enough so that your very choice to move forward slips you back. I know your feet will be tired of trying to repeat the same motion with a new outcome, so I stitch together slippers out of white petals and every kiss I owe you, and the path will always be modest because love is patient, and the ground will always be soft because love is kind, and we will drink the moon to toast tomorrow, and the sun shall always refill our glass.
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