The 16th September by Renee Magritte
You squander my time like it’s nothing;
an extraneous entity, to consume as you please.
Yet here you are again, come with hands held out,
looking to get you s’more.
But baby, I’ve no more for you.
For any of you.
No energy for empty connections;
no words in my vernacular
for one more meaningless exchange.
I’ve not one more minute to spend
giving a fuck that I’m wondering
why I even give a fuck.