I don’t like goodbyes.
I plan my trips in one-night stretches,
or two, or three,
because more than that and I get rest-
less. I do not know how to relax
when I am by myself.
There is only seeing all you can
and moving on to see more,
but that has a fatigue of its own
that dogs my steps like the drag
of too many bags against my shoulders
and the tender flesh of my neck.
And it works, for a time.
Move forward, see what’s coming
next. But as my plans unravel
I can’t see clearly past the train stations
stamped on my ticket;
one goodbye and one hello.
You play Das Lebewohl and
in the third movement, there is always
a Return.
The thing about French is
there’s a difference between
au revoir and adieu.
One means goodbye, until I see you
again. The other means
that the next time I see you
will be when we stand before
God. The other is akin to
never
to my mortal eyes.
I take photos of everything that matters,
and these I will see again;
these cities will never be lost
to my memory. But the feelings
will fade, and each small departure
reminds me of the greater loss.
I do not know which.
It is either the loss of my home,
of you,
or the future loss of everything
I have with me now
when I leave for good.
There’s nothing left to stay for
but I don’t want to leave:
because I do not know if this goodbye
will be an au revoir
or adieu.
Spoiler! :
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