Thunderbolt

I’m in the red.

Overdrawn on hellos

and an excess of goodbyes,

the balance is all wrong.

Libra is terribly crooked.

The plate for hellos soars skyward,

The plate for goodbyes plunges,

crashes into the marble countertop.

Goodbyes tumble all over,

rolling here and there,

flashing silver like tears shed

in some solitary corner of the night.

These goodbyes are a useless currency,

nothing but dead weight in my purse,

drooping on my shoulder like some

sad little devil who whispers of my fear.

Fear. If there be one thing

these goodbyes could purchase,

it is fear. The fear of saying hello

for yet again having to say goodbye.

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