What fate, I have?

Every year I burn out with the crunching numbers 365
On a slow motion I turn myself, one after another.
I may not show you what your future holds 
But I sure can predict the day

I love the way you look at me
So intently; with desire to do something 
You flatter me at times with the smile you give
You matter to me at times when you really ignore

I believe, every red, colored on me gives you joy
Every 7th mark, gives you a cry 
And when you touch me, when you turn me
I know, a little I die.
But that barely matters, 
I am a paper, dry.

On your solitude, you count on me
When the days go bad, your fingers prompt on me
You see, you count the days, provably the weeks and the months 
You look at me and hope that time could fly
But that barely matters,
Every year I burn out with the crunching numbers 365
What fate, I have? Yet I thrive!
I am a calendar, date hung on the side.

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