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

Once again my life may come to an end. Next, let’s be happy love never stays; love is vexing weather depending on manual forecasts. And 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 wrong I belong in this humorless state. I find my love for you is self-assured and formally difficult and — dash — For now let others be happy to die — In the end they appear on fire.

Happy to die! — do we take their place?