Old Growns
Mount Moriah
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Since we met, I've died a hundred deaths
Collected reborn skin, shed it again
Will you take your hands, design a heavy hem
With fingers so delicate, and destroy the stitch
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The old gowns we've kept hang loose and do not fit
Let them fall from hips and pile on the floor
A pounding chest, reckless and restless
Oh take my breath with the softest kiss