Love.
What was love to me.
Other than someone.
I could throw away.
And,
did.

Babe.

I can't care anymore.
Your absence isn't important.
Your presence was a bit of a.
Burden.

You're just here.
Now.
Perpetually leaving cause.
I can't think about tomorrow.
Or where you'll be.

After.
I leave.

Nothing in me yearns.
For another person.
More than a single night.

My schizoid salvation in.
Right now is
never lonely.
It's poignant.

Love?
I don't know that.

Whispers old women tell to children.

Sentiment.