By this time next year

With my words,
sketches of my soul.
Once more,
I am in the corner
of emptiness.

You say ‘move on’.
I say ‘ you have never
tasted seasons of
flowers and larks’.
Or the centuries
of life, I’ve seen.

Do not tell
me how to suffer.
When you have
no more face.
No more surface.
Only one of us,
was meant to be.

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