Like a willow tree that wilts before winter,
You gently lay your branches on my shoulder,
Embracing me.
Like an old pianist,
Who runs her fingers over black and white ebony,
You gently graze along this odd familiarity.
I opened my liturgy of confessions,
Of stark, crude, raw and naked admissions,
And stared at my entries:
Such dark secrets must never see the light of day.
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