Goodbyes have bones—
hollow and breakable,
lined with marrow made of hesitation.
They have teeth, sharp enough
to bite down on unfinished sentences,
turning “stay” into dust.
Some goodbyes have hands,
pushing you gently away,
as if love was a thing
meant to be unlearned.
And then there are the quiet ones—
the ones that never needed words,
only a door left slightly open,
a phone left untouched,
a presence that lingers like an old bruise.