At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
I needed concrete goodbyes.
Those they left me without.
Or rather the ones I never offered myself.
I had been living with untold farewells.
Ones I could not say or hear.
Then, I had to let them go regardless.
I taught myself how to.
I still do every day.
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