Loss - Poem by Conor Young
I’ll tell you what it is I fear:
Do not consider me a love manic
But losing you is what makes me panic.
Many people would give me a leer.
Others don’t matter much;
As long as I can wispier in your ear.
Unafraid of death and poverty;
Petrified at not calling you dear.
I hope never to endure the suffering;
When you and I aren’t in the same gear.
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