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Perfectionism does not lend itself much 
to euphoric moments. Every first is flawed, 
and every retry admits fault.

My voice sounds like her voice now. At least
I try to say different words, but even in that 
I fail. My milestones were cracked, mazed
with veins of disdain, disapproval, her presence,
then his. His was worse, because I chose it.

He took from me a wedding day, births
of children, bright hours and best years. 
When I closed that door, his voice remained;
hers returned.

Then I heard yours, and it was louder. 
You spoke to me of joy and I believed you. Let
it in, strange and new. You saw the cracks
and didn't add to them, just nodded and carved
new stones. Each touch, still, is a thrill I never
thought to feel.

Every first breaks bonds to the past. I welcome
every sunrise as the first time 
I will spend that day with you.

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