There's No Right Way To Say Goodbye

[Spoken Poetry]


To the girl at the table by the window.
I am sorry. I am so sorry. 
I saw you sink deeper in your chair with every word he spoke, though they seemed few, and I saw you grasp your own elbows, clasping tight until your knuckles got white. 
I am sorry. I am so sorry.
I am sorry for the night ahead of you. You will replay every conversation and find better things you could have said, should have said. You will search for small clues of a storm, just some kind of sign. You should have noticed that things were not right.
You will walk many streets without remembering the way, for your head is on the ground, or in the sky, and you will forget simple things, like showering, eating, checking emails, how to sleep.
You will stay on the right side of the bed 
and when you finally manage to fall asleep again, you will wake up by trying to take his hand
but not finding one,
and things will hit you like a gun shot in your chest
over and over again
and I am sorry. I am so sorry.

To the man at the table by the window.
I am sorry. I am so sorry. 
I saw you tackle your way through the labyrinth of words you'd built up
and I saw you sit on your hands, as if not to let them take hers and hold her
like you've done so many times.
And I saw your eyes slowly turning blank but trying to stay sharp,
for you had made a decision after all, though you doubted it now, and things had to be done.
There are seasons for blooming
and seasons for going
and you can not stay if you want to keep moving and 
I am sorry. I am so sorry.
I am sorry for the night ahead of you, when you will replay every single word you said and wonder if you could have said it in any other way. Chose your words more carefully, made the gun shot a bit softer. You will replay the holiday last year, when you were still in love, and her smile made every other grey in comparison.
You will see her drink her coffee in the morning, by the table in the sun, and recall her smell when you kissed her.
Close enough to hear her heart beat, like you did so many times
but never enough
and you will wonder if things could have been saved. Changed and savoured, and maybe you're the weak one, for giving up. 

To the couple walking separate ways from the table by the window.
I am sorry. I am so sorry. 
I saw you both run through the past five years in your minds, and I saw you both gasping for air at the thought of another five years, in this world, without each other, 
for you had it all planned out once. Not materialistic or physical, but together. As long as you had each other you would go on well. 
But I observed you from the other side, sitting by the same table by the same window for months in a row, and the seasons changed from green to grey
and so did you
and I'm not sure where the switch turned black but the novels I wrote about a couple by a window, throwing kisses by just eyes, turned into lies I could no longer write
and it took me months to see the truth in the elegy you'd turned into,
and I think it did
for you too,
and now I feel like a liar writing wills though I'm not dying,
for this is not the end. It is rather the beginning.
Because seasons come and go, bloom and leave behind and so do we
and now you
and you experienced each other, to the fullest, I hope, and it doesn't have to be sad. Doesn't have to be lonely. But still:
I am sorry. I am so sorry.
I am sorry for how he slowly stood up, insecure like he’d never felt before,
and how she did not know if she should stand up too, or stay, or how she could do anything at all
for her limbs got weak
and his hands were shaking as he put one on her shoulder, not knowing how close he could get,
and I am sorry. I am so sorry.

To whoever you are, a year from now.
I am sitting on a train, an early Wednesday in August. The sun is rising over the rails and I'm on my way. A new town, a new phase. I bought many suitcases and coloured my hair in every colour I could find. Found new friends and new homes, introduced myself with different names every time, but still as I shut the door at night, I was no one but me.

You will dream about him for months, but that is not the sad part in this story. The sad part is how it never matched up with what really was, when it was, for we always romanticise the things that no longer are, and it's about the sadness in how we never miss what we have, but only what we don't have, and missing always conquer any other feeling.
Like love,
while it blooms, 
and I am sorry. I am so sorry. 
I am sorry for not knowing how to move on and let go when I am fully aware of how nothing ever stays the same, and it shouldn't, for life is the constant flow, the ebb and low, and so I am sorry.
I am sorry for not knowing how to say this better or in any other way than
 it simply will get better. 
You will get better.
He will
and she will
and it might take time
but there will be an early morning in August when you find yourself on yet another train, towards a new place, a new plan, and you realise that you did not think about him this morning, waking up. And she was not beside you while making coffee, in your mind. And you wish her well, and hope he is happy, and you will send her a thought now and then, and maybe if you see him on the street in a year from now you will not be sad or angry or hurt. Just happy, that he still is, and that you still are, and it's the way life blooms, the ebbs and lows,
and it will get better. You will go on well.
It will take time,
but you will go on well.



Soliloquy - The Aurora Principle
Isolation - Lucas King
Stay - The Glass Child >>>


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drunk on someone else’s love,
or couch,
and I’ve never felt more at home.

I fled myself,
from the life I’ve built
because I’ve been inhabiting routines I don’t want to stand for.

Inhabiting skin I’d rather shed
but still took on
like a soldier serving his country,
for that’s what they told me to do.
But I was not
or wise,
but young and foolish,
for what is this thing? Trading passions for a tiny bit of acceptance,

and I am not a Sunday morning inside four walls
with clean blood
and organised drawers.
I am the hurricane setting fire to the forests
at night when no one else is alive,
or awake,
however you choose to see it,
and I live in my own flames.
Sometimes burning too bright and too wild
to make things last 
or handle
myself or anyone else
and so I run.
Run run run,
far and wide
until my bones ache and lungs split
and it feels good.
Hear that, people? It feels good,
because I am the slave and ruler of my own body
and I wish to do with it exactly as I please,
and living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times,

because I never volunteered to take this on.

The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,
the forever on going task of explaining this and that,
and why I don’t want to look like this and
be like that
but still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.
If this is the place I’ve been given, I’m sure as hell gonna make this work.

So I fled the me that was never really me and I’m on my way. To newer lands and uncleaned streets
for I’ve had enough of childish safety in comfort.
Enough of all telling me to look and do, like this and that,

and I never meant to please anyone but myself
and you can call me selfish,
throw words like knives in the dark but I will not listen,
for not listening to sharp words brought me to where I am today
and I believe in the path I’ve been given. If my only task in this life is to walk it,
I surely will walk it
prouder than anyone else.

If this is the path I’ve been given, I will walk it
prouder than anyone else,
for no one else can.

// from my book You’re Doing Just Fine ☾

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