Like the mess of embroidery floss meant for needlepoint
Kept in the old shoebox under my bed
We were a beautiful mangled tangled together mess.
The combination of intermixed colors made us
appear more beautiful than we ever thought we were alone.
The years, like the knots, seemed impossible to undo.
One weekend was all it took
To sort through those Gordian knots.
One mistake, one move until each string came
free and we were left there
wondering if we were as beautiful on our own.
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