92: To my love in constant revolt, stealing yourself away...

Once again my life ends. Next, I’m happy love never stays; love is vexing weather dependent on inside scars. Manual labor. A heightened blush. Learning to fear the worst I’m happy to have had your love — I don’t know, what’s a fair question — is there one last best state to restage or not to live? It depends on you and me, not false humor, not wrong, I belong in this humorless state without you, without dashing our love. I find my lifetime love for you is self-assured and formally difficult and, oops... Someone else happy to die is on fire.
Happy to die! — do we take their place?