there are only a thousand,
Scheherazade herself is the last one,
for the moment held back,
for a moment all the odds hang even.
The stories she tells she tells mostly
to win another night of watching the prince
drift into a deep sleeping beside her,
the chance to touch one more time
his limbs, going,
gone soft already with dreaming.
When she tells her own story,
Breathe in,
breathe out
is how it starts.
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