It is strange how I leave you,
Not with the fire or ice that I would once have imagined,
Not with thought or lack of, or with watery cheeks,
I leave you with a certain nothing, an empty anything.
It is indeed sad how I leave you- I suppose,
If one were to look at it,
But I do not even do that now,
As once I could not have stopped.
Why would I? You are gone, so am I.
If one were to look at it- I suppose.