This is not a goodbye.

And even in the perfect silence,
I can not tell if I said that out loud.
Unblinking, you reach for me.

This is not a goodbye because,
Your face is still sprinkled with freckles,
The floor still creaks when I shift my weight.

Running my hands over the peeling wallpaper I imagine,
how your laugh still feels warm when it hits my skin,
and the light overhead continues to flicker.

This can not be a goodbye.

If my initials are still carved beside yours in the wooden frame of the rocking chair,
and the couch pillows are still fraying along the edges,
Then we can stay the same too.

Frayed, stained, and broken,
This room still smells of our memories,
Our story leaks through the floorboards.

A soft moonlight bleeds through the window,
Swallowing you in silver light,
Your voice shatters the silence.

Shaking the house to its core,
the wooden floor beneath me weakens.
Or maybe that’s just me.

You say,
This is a goodbye.