This wasteful thing
my wasted life
such wasted love

Nothing to show-
glory or triumph;
riches or praise.
Just what’s left of me.
poured out
barely recognizable from before,
when I was strong and potential
fierce, beautiful, and compelling.
Now I am without.

spent and at rest;
I will waste myself.

          How are you this free?
          Unbound and untouched,
          with gravity’s lightness.
          No clasped hand to hold
          something precious,
          moving like you’re nothing.
          What’s that in your eye
          in your hand
          on your lips
          that you drop off so casually,
          as if you have endless supply?
          Why, so weightless, does your
          vanishing remain on me
          like lead
          pulling me to earth?
          While you slip free.

Because I love something else;
wasted and gave myself away.