What emptiness the end of love brings,
After the pain, although it was much less than expected,
The hours upon hours of leisure thinking when all the love is done,
There is no thinking of him, there is no missing him, there is no him,
Try as I may to think of him I cannot,
I cannot any more than to think I am not thinking of him,
Nothing more to do, nothing more to miss, nothing more to suffer,
I am not with him, nor waiting to be with him, nor have I just been with him,
There is no more him,
Now whole days are open to me, what to do with my time?
I have no need to wait for his text, there will be none,
I am liberated from the wait and it is surpringsly pleasant,
I do love him and I am free of him,
A prison I created with my love for him,
I created it and closed myself in it,
A prision? Yes, but I was willing,
Willing, not now.
I don’t feel the loss, maybe layer,
Later I will cry or throw myself of a cliff,
Although there are no cliffs here,
What to do until then?
Until the emptiness kills me,
While I live my life in the pleasant emptiness of his absence?
To love him and . . . Be in happiness without him,
Seems a betrayal,
To him most of all,
To love him and not to miss him,
To love him and not want him,
To love him and be free of him,
To love him and let him be free of me.