I stare out at the dark sky, the storm
echoing all this hopelessness disguised
as contempt.

It's just me
and my permanent apathy,
love songs playing to the still room.
I remember naïveté, belief-but now
they sting. Some people might call me bitter;
I guess they'd be right.
I'd like to give up on you, but you

linger with this aftertaste left in my mouth.
Why are you still here?