I stole your goodbye.
I plucked it from the corner of your mouth, the same place that I had kissed on a bridge a hundred miles away on a night that felt like forever when I wrapped its memory around my shoulders. So I held onto the corners of that moment and tied them into the loose strands of my hair, and I did the one that that I had promised never to do.
I ran away from you.
I ran until you were nothing but a shadow lingering behind me, as thin and as heavy as the last curl of smoke from a candleflame. And I saw a picture of us in a pool of water on the ground, a reflection of the first night that you spent lying next to me in grass as tall as the bruises on my knees. You told me that you loved me and that love was like a perfect song, you never knew when it would end, if it would end at all. Then I ran my hand into the water and streaked it across my face, so that every drop across my skin held a little piece of you, a deeper part of me.
I ran until it was only the sound of your footsteps echoing off the walls that chased after me. I ran into the trees and it felt just like a dream. So when I saw your face wavering among the leaves, I reached up to take them down with me. I tore them away until I held all of you in my hands, quivering and fragile as the last note in a perfect song. I carried all these things with me, and they carried me along, until there was no more breath left inside my bitter lungs. So I fell before a bridge and let it carry me, too. I laid down every piece of us and did the one thing that I was not strong enough to do.
I said goodbye to you.