With what ease you let the silence dwell.
With what patience you spend the night.
Not meeting eye to eye holds no guilt and the absence of words holds no urgency.
It was your punishment. I was the inflictor.
It was, after all, your fault. I was, after all, wronged.
I didn’t realize then, but punishing you is futile.
Your punishment leaves a burn on my soul.
It makes me want to gather you in my arms. That is my only healer.
So I pick you up, dust you and take you on my shoulder.

My tear’s your healer. My tear’s your forgiveness.
The inflictor, the inflicted and the guilty are one.


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