I think of you
my lost love.
Do you think of me
the way I think of you?

But no.
You couldnīt.
I was never love to you.
Love never was
and one doesnīt think about
what isnīt.

And not to be
is to be nothing.

Itīs not lost.
It never was.
Itīs nothing.
But it was something
for me.

Unlove.
My lost unlove.