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We Won’t Say Goodbye Like This
Not in the airport as you’re gliding down the stairs,
past me already,
on to a life I’ll glimpse from behind.
Or the bathroom, while you’re in the shower
and I scare you as I sneak in,
watching your skin
for that split atom second
through the translucent curtain.
Not in the time it takes for you to say,
“See you!”
in the rearview mirror.
Because you’re right.
You will see me again,
most likely.
Not in this way, though.
Not as we’re sitting across from each other,
you staring at my glass
with the lime sinking towards the bottom
“Like a key lime moon,” I said.
Because I wanted that moment to matter
more than anything else.
Not while we’re discussing your dreams
of being swept up in a tornado
or me burning your rug,
while we head straight into the storm
unknowing of what each of us will hold on to.
Not when you’re thinking you can’t live without me
and I can’t live without you.
Not while I’m holding on
with everything I have,
your lashes so close to mine I can’t see anything
but straight through.
I won’t name the time or the place.
I’m scared
there will be a moment
we really won’t see each other
and I’ll be back in the airport
at the hotel
in the bed
watching Pay-per-View
with an empty shower
running down into the drain.
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