I’ve never been one for goodbyes.
They resonate like welling caves in the pit of my stomach,
echoing in the hollows of my ribs,
clinging in symbiosis to lips, plated tight
reticent to let them escape.
I’ve much preferred farewell, or adieu
past tense, with a soft kiss
which leaves with warmth and memory
which sparks a smile in dark times.
The finality of the word, seven letters
two syllables, hook line and bated breath,
ripples ceaselessly in a tangible place
out of reach.
This is goodbye,
this earth is too parched to plant a seed,
too barren to support life,
too wasted to cultivate.
Where once, an oasis stood
now a dust bowl dance of death.
And there is nothing I can take with me
apart from the knowledge that