The crescendo of pressed and lifted keys
Brings about a stinging aquatic melody
That drips down to the corners
Of his chapped and forgotten lips.
With every consumed drop,
With every unsung song,
Dies the story of a ball gown,
Guardian of a dozen inappropriate secrets.
Those are the secrets he'd trade in
Over and over again,
Only to feel the edge of that double-sided sword,
Only to feel that pulsating pain again.
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