A Way Of Farewell Poem by Ben Partenay

saw you walking by the blue bridge that crosses the river
not far from the dockyard where the boats come in
from Louisiana, from Mississippi, from Missouri, they were
low in the water and full, full, full. you were walking and it’s been
four years now since it was I and you and this and that, all
done up with plans and ideas, grandeur got the best of us dear. I was
reading Kerouac and watching you like the old days
when we’d sit in bed and make plans until we got tired and
read till sundown. you were always reading romance novels
and I was always telling you that’s not how it happens,
that’s not how this world is designed, it’s a dream and
you knew it, knew it better than I maybe, still you read
them and I read Johnson and Okada and Palahniuk
and you told me I was too bitter sometimes
when you kissed me. it ended after we walked by the
lake and you were picking up only the ugly stones and
throwing the smooth ones back. you were saying
the ugly ones were the only honest ones “they got guts” you said
and I told you I had to be honest and needed to leave. we
talked for a while after and you told me you were
in love again and I told you be careful and then I said I
was in love again and you said be careful and we were
both so careful that we ended up alone again for awhile.
so it goes and we kept in touch, then less and less until
it was a wave maybe a whispered hello in passing a
blush or glance when in public. it was what happens
when no one is sure what to say, what happens when
everything is gone, it was the sound of leaving. now you are
off I hear, heading east and making plans. you’re in love again,
I want to say be careful but we don’t exchange looks or
waves or breaths or sighs any longer. it’s been four years
and I am sitting on a hard backed bench reading Yeats, reading “growing old” reading “never give all the heart”.
it’s been four years and
I’m finally saying goodbye.