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Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to.

What can I say?

Tell me.

What can I say

when you stand there

grinning

like history has selective memory

like departures don’t count

if you don’t look back.

No.

You didn’t do anything.

You just left.

Like a train

that shut down forever.

Not delayed.

Not rerouted.

Forever.

The last time I saw you

we were still on the same track.

Same direction.

Same rhythm.

Steel humming under us

like the future was certain.

That was ages ago.

And somehow

I’m still at the station.

Waiting.

For the same train

to board.

Imagine that.

Waiting for something

that already decided

it was done with me.

You’ve become memory now.

And memory travels fast.

Faster than forgiveness.

Faster than logic.

Full speed

through my mind

a velocity

my love could never equal.

And the moment

you went parallel to me

close enough to see

far enough to lose

I knew.

Parallel lines don’t meet.

They just perform proximity.

We looked together.

We were never together.

And I think that’s what hurts.

Not that you left.

But that I understood

exactly when

you were not coming back.

I just wish

I had been inside

the last train.

Not watching it leave.

Not memorizing the sound

of doors closing.

But inside.

Gone with you.

Before the tracks

decided

which one of us

was staying.