Before the end

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

I overcame.