Nothing There.

I can imagine the resignation in your eyes,
as you finally see what lies inside.
There's nothing there, there never  was.
Nothing to miss, no sense of loss.
Just turn the page and close the book,
I'm never worth another look.
Projections of things you thought were there
had shone so briefly in thin air,
but never substance, never clear.
No oasis, just desert here.
You'll cross the road or turn away,
I'll play along, it's best that way.
Another part death to keep inside
my private hell and public pride.
I'll never scream nor mourn my loss,
just carry on and count the cost.
A cost so high it almost kills me
daily, weekly, monthly, yearly.
You'll never miss me, never care.
How could you? There was nothing there.