Come before, and still late to myself;
noise all around inside, and peace outside;
from day to night, and night to hurt,
the ringing, and the silence, of time.
In the heart of hate and love,
with the cycle of joy and pain;
destinations with no journey,
one voice — and all of it empty.
A recreation of thoughts and incidents,
lasting, though never in your presence;
fame to loss, hate to love —
merely the active dichotomy of your love.
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