Goodbyes
I like when you don’t say goodbye. When I’m just a piece of used furniture at a second hand shop, stuffed in the back, old and dusty. Coins deep in the folds of my skin and I smell like stale cigarettes. Used never felt so right.
I like when you don’t say goodbye. When I make phone calls to an empty robotic voice, through some invisible lines that I can never touch or see. Sparking you with a sense of what I used to be, when you used to be someone I could feel. Disconnecting never felt so right.
I like when you don’t say goodbye. When I reach out to pull you from a flood, but I’m the one drowning. Hoping you will be the one that saves me. That keeps my lungs free from salt and bits of broken shingling and chain link fence. Losing grip never felt so right.
I like when you don’t say, “Good buy.” But rather when you say, “What is the return policy for this broken man?”
