struck

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.