It was not a photograph we committed to fire
or a face we drowned in the past;
the rites of passage are the elusive words
we came to finally believe in.
I used to follow people in the maze, hoping one
would steer me to the way out.
On nights when the crest of tears shatter
I knew I was not caught in the grip of closure
and savoured the fucking ache
of silence's neverending limbs and lies.
We were never to be eked upon each other's soul.
You didn't wait with me for morning dawn's silk,
but left me swollen under a stone ribcage -
feeling spare and yearning for the stage exit,
I knew once again my way out was not
the light glinting from a beautiful pair of eyes.
And it was not the abbreviated time with one
who might have meant much more;
it was not the tongue of a conjured moon poet
nor the afterthought to a foreground of ecstasy.
No, closure was typically founded in the words we never said.
And it was three words now built like kingdoms in my lungs:
"Goodbye, little life."