You’re leaving.
There was so much to be said.
Words, thoughts, feelings,
goodbyes.

The moment has passed—
too quickly—
but what should I do with unspoken words?
Where do they go?
They begin to lack vigor and tangency.

If thoughts could fly like birds,
then I would be watching mine approach the horizon
growing smaller
and smaller
and then
gone.

But they’re not gone--
just elsewhere.
Have they flown with the rising sun on their backs
to that place you’re fated to be?
Or am I erroneous to think as such?

Resting in the recess of my mind—
the lucre of a passive marauder—
these words remain
buried.

Life’s situations changed between acts.
Distance drew the curtains shut.
Intermission.
The curtain draws again—the characters altered.
I, the observer, surprised by the act’s new backdrop, notice
the players have matured.
Quickly, too—
but my view has not yet adapted
still remembering the beautiful set of life’s passed scenes.

Alas, the show must go on.