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This is about the soft awakenings,
the brave realisations, the happening miracles.
This is about loss,
and what you find after.
This is about how the sun loved the moon so much
she’d let her shine even in the day.
This is no longer listening to the room of echoes,
of finally letting go,
of getting to know lightness.
This is the swallows singing the sky home.
This is about the way you look at me
when you’re drunk. Like
I’m a miracle. Like
maybe this is all enough for us.
And this is laughter claiming home
in our mouths.
This is about the words you say
when you think I’m not listening.
And these are the battles that have left us defeated,
the wars we’ve won, and
the bloodshed that keeps on coming.
This is slipping through forever
and catching the moments as we fall.
This is what happens after.
The healing.
The days of barely making it.
This is setting yourself on fire
to burn through the darkness,
to get to the other side.
This is searching for something, anything.
This is walking through your ghosts and
finding pieces of yourself everywhere.
This is building yourself a home and having
every wall leaning a little bit to the left
because your hands couldn’t stop shaking.
This is standing at the edge
of some unknown
with a gentle tremble in your chest.
This is it.
This is it.
This is it.
— A.Y. // this is it (via 2wentysixletters)

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