So what do I say
   now that I have
      nothing to miss in you?

I want to walk up to your office
   in the most
 Frances Farmer way
  and tell you that I quit
 (yes, I'm mad)
  and I won't be back.
Not even for your birthday.

   And I can't even remember you now.
Eyes like summer stars
   when you still believed I had it
 and you were like grace
    with guitar picks and bands
 nobody has heard of, poetry,
  Baulidare and
    some others,
 ciggerette smoke and
   Mazzy Star,
and
   tell me how we're going to be famous together
  now
    when I am even run dry
 of the want
 of missing you, when
   I come by now
       just to make sure you're okay
   but not because
       you make my chest burn or
  not even because you make me
    choke on my words
    and I'm sure you feel the same because
you don't even bother to do things wholly with me,
  indifferent,
 you tell me about your girlfriend
   and she seems really nice.

I can't bring myself to ache.
I have listened to
 "Fade Into You" and
   "Letter To Elise"
 and they only remind me of you
  vaugely,
there is a dim version of you
   drawn all wrong, like a
     television set, fuzzy
 and crackling, replaying itself.
You are playing "The Rebel Jew"
    dropping your pick
 halfway through the song
  forever.