"You know, this skirt used to be white."
She said, standing over the garden.
Her hands nervously straightened
the folds and creases and pleats.
The skirt was a little too long,
and trailed tattered in the dirt.
Her back was towards me
as she studied the coming evening.
"Then something red got mixed with the wash.
But I like it this way.
The way each fabric has a different shade of red."
There were maroons and pinks and purples,
layered as can only happen by chance.
I approached from behind, for the embrace,
and her hands rested on my hands
circumscribing her waist.
Not much was said.
Nothing needed to be said.

I went back inside to do the dishes
she sort of ambled close behind.
I don't know how the conversation started.
But there was a distant fogginess in her eye.
"It's just that I'm afraid of starting over.
I had made such great friends
and now we've all gone and scattered once again."
Her voice cracked and she blushed.
She excused herself, and slid into the bathroom.

Ah, but love, I've done the same as you.
When I left my home to chase after school.
Again, when I left school to wander down the road.
Again, when that road led me back to school.
Again, when I left town to chase a worldly life.
Every time I left dear friends, and lovers,
to chase some wild, cursory whim.

I was in my bedroom, cleaning up for the night.
I felt her presence approaching.
"******, I just need you to hold me."
So I took her in my arms, and waited patiently.
Then she cried, and it was fine.
Nothing's wrong with weeping free.
We slept in each others arms that night
which was a strange occurrence for me.
Usually I'm wide awake with the rhythms
of breath and heart cycling beside.
She spoke in her sleep,
words which she didn't understand the next day.
They were simply one iteration of a single phrase:
"Thank you."

That's the closest she came to saying "good-bye."