π
There's a finality in saying 'goodbye' Because you never actually say those words,And you never realise it until much later. Ours was a meaningless text about workIt all seems so stupid now,Would you even remember it? We're like parting clouds,The one's that look like weak brush strokes, Barely noticable in the early hours of another summer. I should have known. Sometimes I make myself think that if I had something of yours to keep, Like an old sweater,I'd miss you lessBecause there's hope in such things. If it were all staged as though you're coming back, A jacket left resting on a dining chairOr loose change on your desk, Would any of it make me believe that we hadn't said goodbye in our own way? In your absence I'm left writing one pointless poem after the other, One progressively worse than the last, Stuck in a moment of our time. Recalling an 'us' no one is left to remember.