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

Once again my life ends. Next, let’s be happy love never stays; love is vexing weather depending on manual labor. With inside scars. A heightened blush. But no longer — it’s so like American Gothic under manageable stress, 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? For it depends on you, not false humor, and it’s not wrong I belong in a humorless state without dashing our love. I find my love for you is self-assured and formally difficult and ooops... So others happy to die are on fire.

Happy to die! — do we take their place?