When the trees have faded and the skies turn to grey
When the streets have emptied at the end of day
There is one last passenger left standing by
the silo, willing to say, but never could, goodbye.
When I am gone and the transit tube stops
short of driving me away and back to you
When the band stops playing our song, hopped
on to new repertoire for applause and Motown blues
there is one thing left that never could be said
without blanching, a sudden blood rush to the head.
If motive makes the fact, then you live in dreaming
and bound to leave in wake, a motion most telling -
There is leaving and there is leaving you, but
I'd rather say hello than goodbye to you.
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Written for a good friend who left to backpack across Asia.