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.