You're leaving...Have we reached the end? You felt it. I didn't understand! Perhaps my senses are at fault, lulling me into sleep with their false confidence. You decided it...At least let me see you off. One last time I walk with you. Loneliness takes your place. Bear it. The world hasn't ended! It's awkward...And how the cold grips me...! Where did this wind come from? My life lies shredded. You ask, sharp-tongued, "Where now?" My heart speaks in its naïve tongue. It whispers, hoping still, "Stay. I love him so much. Never enough!" Who will tell him? Who will make him understand? Goodbye! I have no strength left for this Goodbye. I wish you...I hope you find happiness! "I love you!" — I have no right to speak it! It stays here, pressed into the page—in my melancholy verse...
# No Strength For A Goodbye You are leaving. I know it already— the way your eyes have grown distant, the way your hands find other places to rest. I could say something beautiful now, something that would make this moment shine like pearls in old stories. But I have no strength for a goodbye. Not the kind with noble words, not the kind with tears that fall just so, not the kind that leaves you thinking I was brave, or graceful, or wise. I am simply here, watching you gather the small things— a book, a scarf, the memory of a Sunday we pretended would never end. And I am thinking: how strange that endings don't announce themselves with trumpets. They come like winter, like the way light changes in a room and you don't notice until suddenly you're reaching for the lamp. So I will not say goodbye. I will not make this noble. I will sit here in this quiet that tastes like rust and rain, and let you leave the way people do— with hesitation, with one last glance, with the terrible, ordinary mercy of simply walking out the door. There is no strength in me for farewell. Only this: the sound of your footsteps, growing smaller, and my hands, still open, still reaching into the dark.
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