work the days away
suicide by increments
busy doing nothing
who will remember you?
I am so small yet yearn for so much more

sense of loss with no object
abstract desire; unfocused
detached nostalgia for ...what?
my chest only swells at the
thought of things that cannot be

I break my own heart
project my love deep into illusions
so it will shatter with them

sentimentality for the lack thereof
petty, superfluous, material
beyond my control that this is all I can grasp

it’s fine by me
honestly
it’s for the best
it must be

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