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photoetry

Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye

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She began by leaving the argument. She kept a half-finished thought to herself and fled to the bedroom. He stayed at his desk, at his computer, praying for a calculation to be processed that was, is and always will be incomputable.

An hour or more passed. Over the noise of the news playing in the living room he heard her half-measured sounds suffused with song. He ran around in his mind but moped around the den. The sounds repeated. He stepped out into the hallway, which after a decade was bare of photographs, keep sakes and color. He paused at the bedroom door, mustering up the last of his strength.

He found her laying on the bed along an unfamiliar axis. He stared at her exposed feet and repeated to himself his variant of the line "not even the rain has such small hands." He knew that the line was hers to keep.

He lay beside her at a distance. She tapped shuffle and play on the I-Phone he bought her for Christmas and their last communication began.

Well he gave her a dime store watch, and a ring made from a spoon. Everyone's looking for someone to blame. When you share my bed you share my ---

He wrestled the phone out of her hands.

Don't cry my name out your window I'm leavin. I won't even turn my ---

Her turn.

I left a note on his dresser, my old wedding ---

His turn.

See it stream, down your face, when you lose something you can not ---

She shivered, her hands turning solid and beginning to glow. Her last turn.

So with my best, my very best, I set you free. I wish you shelter from a storm, a cozy fire to keep you warm, but most of all, when snowflakes fall, I wish you ---

Every inch of her became bronze, even her small feet. He slowly rose; she lay still. He slipped away and hummed softly, but she could no longer hear.

Your eyes are soft with sorrow. Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.