Beside me rests a naked hand
connected to a farewell face.
A face not worn--but young, and he
can capture souls without a word.
A farewell face--though he stays.
He stays, though longs to leave
like all the rest. Like the trend.
Like someone not willing to express
with words that with me, it is not...
it is just not enough to be by me.
My apologies--I guess I was born
this way. Inadequate. Mediocre.
I'm sorry for my mortality and
my lack of overcoming natural selection.
But, alas, my shoulders are under pressure
again. Glorious tons of weight, as always.
So that in my decision, or lack thereof,
it will be inevitably a fault of mine.
Like, perhaps, if this farewell face
is walking away from me in the night
and I'm left at the light-switch.
Though he walks, darkness and light
remain resting in the palm of my hand.
And my decision of when to leave him
in darkness rests on me, not him who
journeys away, face forward.
How dare you put this weight on me,
for the farewell face--he plays well,
he knows exactly what he is doing
and he passes the decision to me--
the darling--in a disguise so it looks proper.
All the while, he joins the rest;
all the while, he leaves me behind
without a farewell glance.