I Won't Say it if You Don't

Goodbye

is the foulest

word

I've ever

tasted.

It's chipped bark

crumble

on my tongue

leaves the organ

stiff

and bleeding,

the ashy paste

of sentences

I never

lent life

coating my teeth,

and eating away

at enamel

the way

your fingers

once consumed

my skin;

I would

rather

let the screen

door

speak for us,

the clang-click

of metal

and latch

twining cold

bodies

together

and heralding

the end

of the morning

with a sharp

aluminum

kiss.

The great beast

growl

of your engine

can purr

its reply

to metallic

lovers,

and the

drooping tree

beside the

porch

will lift lazy leaves

in a last

swaying

wave.

I'll let

the kettle

heat through

as my body

did for you,

and while you

roll away

soft

into the

burgeoning

day,

The steam

that boiling water

births

will climb spout

walls

as silence does

my throat,

and scream

what I

can't:

"goodbye"