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The music box plays when you open the lid, each piece moving together seamlessly, flawlessly executing its song and dance, time and time again. When you remember to wind it.
But she hadn’t been winding it, lately. Not for a while had she twisted the key on the back of the box, but still the music kept flowing, still the ballerina kept dancing (in spite of a broken leg, for a time, there), propped up by him - always caring, always watching, always waiting.
He’d manned the key for a while now, and it’d been no light task, keeping two lives on track to a proper rhythm and cadence, dancing along to a music-box-song, hope springing eternal from pins and gears as we’d moved alongside each other, until she was ready to take up the mantle.
She will, and she does - no burden to bear, just love to be shown. Hand twisting key, music in wait, ballerina poised, ready to resume the rhythms and let him rest, she steps in with a kiss, music never once slowing, their gift to each other.
Let me be your weird music box.
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- 2 years ago
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