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My lover waits for me in hell,

lapping my tears fallen from rage,

or envy or any such disgrace.

He calls to me in mornings,

when my eyes awake to nought,

but a smothering whiteness,

of the clouded sky.

He tells me that he waits.

He tells me that he wants,

not love, but just wants,

to steal volumes of space,

such that no gladness,

can light the chamber inside,

nor any tears wash clean the stains.

He wishes to wring me,

exorcise me from pain,

with more pain,

and never does he cease,

to tell me of my fate:

"We are married," he says,

"We are one."

But I gain no comfort in space,

I tried, even, back then,

but I don't love sorrow,

even if we are married.

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