breaths between parentheses

in tiny increments it unfolds, unwinding in spirals
like crumbling walls realigned;
you are new Prometheus with thorns in your hands,
the new age Jesus Christ–
but you are no postwar martyr. you hung these chains yourself.

and i, in promising to take you down from your cliff: am i crazy,
or is this what love means?

i may never know, but i can’t stop trying.

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