You cornered me again; again I fled,
but even without looking in your eyes
I still can count the tears they feign to shed;
your lips are ever strangers to good-byes,
you never learned how deep and ancient wounds
heal not from meager joy — nor empty time.
Your hope repels me still, these hundred moons
that passed and tell you now the hour is prime
to beg forgiveness for your many wrongs,
and that will oust resentment from my mind;
no, yet it lives, lives just where it belongs;
it saved my heart, I owe it now no less.
Besides, were I to leave those tears behind,
I would feel nothing for you. Emptiness.

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