Welcome

Maybe there’s something you should know about me before you get into this. Or rather, some things.

I don’t know how to not be hurt by little things.

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I also don’t know how to wear the skin I once wore, because really it no longer fits.

And I hardly even recognize it.

But at the same time, the mirror is just as much of a stranger.

I see myself in my head as a Kaleidoscope of colors and feelings and secrets and songs and curious ramblings of the mind. My mind.

But as I see my own prism of self, I also see Forgotten Shoes.

A phase I’ve grown out of, a style I wish I could fit once again, a place I once again feel.

Who was the butterfly-effect blasphemy, the photographer’s first love?

San Francisco in may and rain on the bus windows?

Tear-stained fallen leaves, wondering if they’d ever let her in.

Hands held in backseats, hugs lasting hours, eyes brown as dirt, or sometimes an amber stone.

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I don’t know how to write an introduction but I’ve also never really understood conduction. Though it was taught so early on, I think the point was drowned out by a song.

To escape, to ignore, to keep from falling to the floor.

I would only listen.

And wonder and wait, and consider myself- would I become something great?

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In my mind, I’m going back to San Francisco- on my own this time.

But I’m constantly wondering if there would be something for me.

Would I tear up at the familiarity?

Or rejoice in the once-known?

Were those butterflies, window sills, autumn leaves, or a memory of confusion?

Was I me or was I blocking a path I, myself, couldn’t see?

Is that who I still want to be?

I can’t fit into that mold right now, I can’t look at you without remembering and I can’t hear her name without skipping a breath.

But I promised you were the memory I wouldn’t lose.

So who is Forgotten shoes?

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