The Last Time I Said Goodbye

I didn’t know it was the last time.

The phone buzzed,

your name lit up like always—

comfort in pixels,

routine in sound.

We talked about the usual:

the dog,

the neighbors,

your aching knees,

how the weather was acting up again.

You laughed halfway through a sentence,

paused to cough,

then came back,

stronger—

as if you knew

I needed you whole.

I said,

“Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

And you said,

“Alright, sweetheart.”

The line clicked.

That soft, final hum.

Silence.

But the world had already tilted

a quiet momet noticed.

No sirens,

no storm,

just

a quiet moment

folding in on itself.

I didn’t know that was the last time

I’d hear your voice

without echo.

Now, it visits

in voicemails I can’t delete,

in dreams that sound too real.

Why didn’t I say more?

Why didn’t I hold onto that moment

like it was glass,

fragile and rare?

Why didn’t goodbye feel

like the end?

Sometimes,

it’s the softest drop

that breaks you.