There’s a little piece of you that drifts away every time you say goodbye. It’s the end of a moment in time. And even with the promise of another, the potential of this ongoing line and what it could become, once traveling with great energy, becomes a segment. It’s a beginning and an end, waiting to repeat.
Our goodbyes create lines we wanted to be circles, optimistically looping on one return trip after another.
The threat of goodbye is too often put in context of pure finality. A chance always flickers, no matter how infinitesimally small, that goodbye is just a word you’re saying, and not a cutoff point. A shape remains. Maybe you mean it, maybe you don’t. Perhaps it has underlying context, said with great aspiration or ferocious abandon, the recipient left to mull over its geometric positioning.
This Is Why I'm Drunk 