Words were only promises worn onto our souls. A desperation when life is tainted with things unknown. Of course, the moon didn't fall for the sun in the horizon, when their gazes met in a minute of a terrible departure.

The sun knew what sacrifices were made when love fell, mimicking the way his lips met the sea and burnt it red like trails of ash on a used bed sheet.

Clouds parted, showing clear skies, and words were met with an expectant goodbye, like the clashing blue and red of the sun and the moon, all over again.

The promise of a better tomorrow was darkened by the night,  lit ablaze by the day, and still, the words were sewn into their souls; bleeding, tearing, and frayed.

Humans cried, animals wept, and nature mourned as days became hours of shifting pain between torn souls, who stared at each other across the sky, weeping, "It's always goodbye."