How to say goodbye

It’s hot today.

The sweat trickles through limp curls into my eyes

Salt and salt mingle on my tongue.

Dust in my eyes, I brush it away

Impatiently

I say something funny, not funny

Or stupid.

Blinked away as you continue methodically

To take yourself far away again.

Wondering, now, of cycles and stars, salty tides

Because we don’t say these things

To each other.

I laugh, something funny again

Or stupid

Because we don’t say these things.

The room is getting smaller

I’m on a blue island, dotted with white

And my limbs are shrinking away

My hair retracting into my scalp

I reach for you through dust and stars

But we don’t say these things

To each other.

You made me breakfast today

And lunch for the last time.

The grapefruit was bitter in my mouth

And now it’s salty too.

You tidied up my things for me

Some things I cannot do.

I’m scared the tide won’t change again

And that you won’t come home

I’m scared that I can’t call it that

Now that we’re both grown.

I want to tell you all of this

But I know you don’t like salt.

So I lie in bed and write instead

Hoping that maybe after all the dust

and stars and tides

Have settled, burned, come in, come out,

And cycles gone around and round

Maybe after all of this

I’ll be as strong as you.