Sometimes I think my heart is like a lonely, stray dog. It never learns the way home, but it recognizes a gentle hand. It runs after anyone who offers even just a moment of warmth. Then it returns to me, with its tail lowered, and eyes like wet glass, as if the rain has stayed inside it. I stroke it very gently, without saying a word, just fingers moving like quiet forgiveness. “I know,” I whisper. “Me too.”
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