The Farewell
Like a beggar asking for change, I held out my hand, but she didn't seem to notice it hanging in the air between us.
"Good bye, good bye," she said, so sweetly, voice like a nightingale, "good bye, good bye." I tried to speak. I tried to beg her to stay. But my throat was sore, hot as fire, and the bells of the clock were a thunderstorm in my ears. Each ring was like a fresh new death sentence.
"Good bye, good bye," and she was gone, my hand still held out for hers: a statute with a broken heart, a snap shot of a forgotten man, a child lost in a forest pausing only a moment to take in the full gravity of awaiting death.
"Good bye, good bye," she said, so sweetly, voice like a nightingale, "good bye, good bye." I tried to speak. I tried to beg her to stay. But my throat was sore, hot as fire, and the bells of the clock were a thunderstorm in my ears. Each ring was like a fresh new death sentence.
"Good bye, good bye," and she was gone, my hand still held out for hers: a statute with a broken heart, a snap shot of a forgotten man, a child lost in a forest pausing only a moment to take in the full gravity of awaiting death.