In my flimsy arms,
I feel her small shoulders
shake uncontrollably as she sobs,
as her tears soak up the oversized scarf I am wearing,
which is not even mine.

My heart cries
because I cannot handle that
her height is less than mine, even in her heels, and
because she is dressed for an occasion
Yet her tears seem to have no end.

And my heart cries some more
because she drove all this way for this five-minute hug
As if I were of importance

In my flimsy arms,
she is there:
one of the strongest women;
of the strongest people,





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