Today is one of those rare, scary poetry slams. The featured poet: C'est moi.
I wrote this a couple years ago. I'd tell you the exact date, but that wouldn't be fun. Who's the unfortunate young man I wrote about? Of course I'm not going to tell you that, either!
But I will tell you this: I still remember exactly how he looked at me that day. Goodbyes are tough. Sometimes, like this one, they're tough and romantic (and dramatic). Sigh. Swoon. Puke. Etc.
Or maybe just my poetry is tough and dramatic. To read. Ha! After the jump, my romantic, dramatic goodbye poem of the past. But first: What's so good about goodbye?
How often will we do this?
We linger in the leaving,
prolonging the moment
before we have to return
to our separate selves.
When you dropped me off
and you looked at me that way
You've never been more beautiful
and I couldn't—I wouldn't—
reaching for, caressing your face
holding on to your lips with mine
One more minute for us.
Because you look at me that way
and I know
I can't say goodbye
when I see me in your eyes, that way.