Saturday, April 3


I wake up and it's your face that greets me.
In no less than 3 words, you ask it.
I think it's you, but you are covered.
My eyes form the image that it's you.

I am wrong.
You do not care for me.
Nor have you ever loved me.
I keep hoping, it's destroying me.

Hang on, the voice tells me.
You can make it, it shouts.
How can I make it?
If I will never be sure it's you.

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