Page 57 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #2

The Book of Goodbyes
Hard to record the substance of goodbyes,
the awkward elbow-clasp as doors swing wide, the desperate small-talk of the taxi ride,
the sudden rush of what we should have said when later, our unburied sorrow finds us packing a bag or stripping down a bed,
instead of that lame stuff, a duff translation of love, an awkward hand held up, a rough stumbling from the platform at the station.
The car tells us we’ve reached our destination
and silence falls. Sometimes I tell myself
that somehow, somewhere, our goodbyes are stored,
bound between black spines, each offering falling just short, invariably flawed,
the pages heavy as a broken thing.
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