Goodbye

I don’t say it.

I walk out the door,

And pretend it isn’t happening.

It is easier

On the heart

In the moment.

But hurts deeper

Later on,

When the

Unsewn end

Starts losing its stuffing.

When the

Unpatched hole,

Grows wider, wilder, more

Grotesque like an open

Mouth.

An uncovered

grave.

An unbandaged

wound.

An unsealed

envelope.

An unlocked

door.

Easily accessed by

Any and all.

Transferred not

To the safety of

The remembering part

Of the brain,

But

Left in the open

Fields of gray matter

To be poked

Prodded

Tossed

Bothered

By everything

Happening along

Its path.

A shiny artifact

On the walls

Of the mind.

A crumpled newspaper

In the streets

Of the heart.

Missing settles in,

Happens deeply,

With great, opened shame.

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