When was I supposed to say goodbye? Sometime before I forgot about you, of course. And preferably sometime after you’d forgotten about me.
But if I had to wait until the former, then I’d be right where I am, never having said goodbye, still remembering you. And if I had to wait until the latter, why then say goodbye at all?
I am not inhumane. I may be inconsiderate. I know I am quite selfish. I may still be a child.
But when, exactly, is the end? And how am I to know? When to cry. When to move on. When to run. And when to give up. Until the end, what do I do instead?
Even of the things which have answers readily available, I am too lazy to find them out. As for finding answers to these matter-full things, well, simply contemplating such a monumental effort just knocks me breathless. Besides, where would I begin to look?
Maybe I have never been in love. But, at least several times I thought I was. Maybe I was only in fear, never love. And maybe I chose impossible objects for my affection, beautiful young things in a league so far from me that I could safely count on never being met in my passions by the other. Maybe I wanted to be sure that he would never confront me on the ground of my own heart. Or maybe it was I that feared to tread on the ground of his.
He–the many of them who were each ‘the one’ from time to time–is now gone. And never once, I think, did I say goodbye. And just now something smacks here of dishonesty. ‘Gone’ is not exactly true; almost all are still somewhere. Only one has died. And ‘not here’ is subjective in every case, even death.
And it doesn’t matter if I play games with place, chasing objects too far to reach, and running from all that would come close. All that means is that I am terrified, and lonely, like a million others. But it doesn’t give me an answer.
When was I supposed to say goodbye?