Daylight.
A wakeup call.
Time to experience the last goodbye.

A flight of steps.
A car ride through sunny skies and warm air.
A quick hug, and two emotionless faces.
        I'll see you on the other side, he says.

A daytime nap of avoidance.
Afternoon sun and a visit with friends to make time pass more quickly.
A long, fun break from reality.

Nighttime.
Dinner and daiquiris in the town where we first met.
I gaze at the night sky, the same sky you'll see
        from thousands of miles away.

Friends laughing, playing,
Climbing trees, riding wheelbarrows, acting youthful
Under the guidance of the moon. Then, a phone call.

Your voice on the other line.
Overjoyed friends giggle and yell, come see us one last time.
Another hello and another goodbye. I'm stricken.

Your face, your body, your scent so close again.
Another frantic, joyous chorus of friendship, and
Suddenly you're here again, solid, more than a memory.
        Tangible.

A few moments alone, as friends keep their distance and return
To quiet houses. Togetherness. Awkwardness.
Only the black sky between us now.

Your lips pressed against mine,
My aching, betraying body tells me.
Then friends come back, and the moment is gone forever.

A fun night. Then sickness. Two arms thrown around me to
Keep me on my feet, off the ground. One arm gains confidence
In my stability and leaves. One remains.

Your stomach, a perfect pillow for my lurching, uprooted
Mind. Your body, the warmth that the night is lacking, the warmth
That's nearly gone forever. Friends wander astray again, and we're
        Alone. Silent. Peaceful.

The inevitable drive home.
A short, silent, exercise in stoicism.
A final goodbye, for real this time.

Two doors open. Four arms fumble gently around bodies
In the darkness, for remembered warmth. We've done this once in
Sunlight, but the night makes us closer, more intimate.

Four arms notice peering eyes and the crack of dawn,
But these arms are honest about their desires.
We've done this once before, they say,
        Only this time we're not letting go.

06/16/2007

Posted on 06/17/2007
Copyright © 2024 Amanda Bullington