No fond farewell, this.
The first time was in the dark, a subdued scramble
And civilised wrestling in a moonlit tent,
And soon it became more practised, and with time, more proficient.
Over the years there were added interests, diversions, laughter,
Even pain from time to time; children of course, and back to
Fumbled encounters in the dark, snatched now and then.
Next came suspicion, odd smells, the wrong perfume,
Unexpected meetings, random phone calls when
The caller just hung up. And slowly but surely,
It died. It became a chore, no pleasure, a duty
To be fulfilled every now and then, for a quiet life.
People moved on, new discoveries, new joy, new pain
And new friendships, built on sand perhaps, then once again
The death of hope, the ending of that joy
That drove passion.
And more moving on,
New interest, new explorations, shared laughter, but
Even so, all too soon, endings begin to replace beginnings,
And then, the decline, the termination of what
Was begun so very long ago.
No fond farewell, rather a bitter and encroaching
Grief, that overpowers and cuts, knife-like, across
Hope and plans.
I do not want to say goodbye. I do not wish you farewell.
It is too soon.
Too soon.
© 2ndwitch, 30/04/14
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