I walked off the stage and brushed past the black velvet curtains with one hand.
The lonely sound of your clapping echoed loudly through the inlaid gray arches of the dark auditorium as I stepped down to the exit.  
There was a lot to get out of my locker; I also had to put my sheet music away. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my clay-filled mouth so I  ran my mouth under the water fountain. I waited, but you did not come to the locker.

I had to find you, under a tree outside in the spirea-shielded courtyard. I looked up into your face, with your black eyes and blue tie and black hair and long hands. All the time that I had known you made me habitually accustomed to looking at you longer than other people.

We went to the library and sat at a table beside the religious section, and all of a sudden, you told me that you were gay. Apparently, I looked very put out. I gripped the table with one hand and tried not to cry. (I love you, you are so ingenious that it's a crime. It's incomprehensible- please tell me it's not really true,)

I think I left some of my skin on the keys of the piano, and more of it on the ground in the library.