Gone Again

I find myself at times again to odds,
As if no other were there and I were dimly typing to relieve, to not think,
An act of faith, of blind romance and longing for something that may never be true enough to me, but only to others do they see the truth behind it.
I wonder to them if it is true, if not for me, but for others that it means there is something of substance behind it,
Is the craving worth the pain and loss of emotion it causes or does it all amount to zero.
I wonder for myself, only out of spite.
A spite of not knowing what else there is possibly to do.

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