We have different ways of leaving,
you and I.
My goodbye dawdles, resistant.
Theatrical, I babble, pause, glance back.
I wait, stretching the goodbye until I’m certain,
Hovering over the doorknob, the lock,
until I feel the security on both sides.
A leaving ritual to safeguard return:
I say goodbye so that it is not.

But you leave quietly, having no use
for ceremony,
Knowing that some things don’t need a voice,
Knowing that we are already secure,
and our doors never close on each other.
Your goodbyes move fluid and natural,
as we are.
Your goodbye is small as the space between us,
knowing you haven't gone,
and you flow through the departure
as a tide pulls from the sand.