Fare-Thee-Well
John Grey
Today,
she packed up
the remnants of our life together –
some shoes, a suitcase,
CD’s, books, her framed Renoir prints.
Her last hug was perfunctory,
the kind that casts doubt
on all previous hugs.
And her kisses on my cheek
could never be mistaken for love.
At least the Sunday afternoon air
will never again be bothered
by random Spandau Ballet songs,
or loud phone calls with her mother,
or snide remarks about my cooking skills.
I’ll be alone,
observer of that quiet contest
between loneliness and relief.
I’ll be alone
and master of my solitude.
Today,
two years of my life
were rounded up
to a soft, sad farewell,
rounded down
to me watching her go from here.
she packed up
the remnants of our life together –
some shoes, a suitcase,
CD’s, books, her framed Renoir prints.
Her last hug was perfunctory,
the kind that casts doubt
on all previous hugs.
And her kisses on my cheek
could never be mistaken for love.
At least the Sunday afternoon air
will never again be bothered
by random Spandau Ballet songs,
or loud phone calls with her mother,
or snide remarks about my cooking skills.
I’ll be alone,
observer of that quiet contest
between loneliness and relief.
I’ll be alone
and master of my solitude.
Today,
two years of my life
were rounded up
to a soft, sad farewell,
rounded down
to me watching her go from here.
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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos.
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