You, dear friend, back home for a while,
are about to leave again for your life
abroad. This is our farewell lunch. We sit
by the window, where the light pours in.
How the silences fall like
rays across your face. As usual our conversation
has that quality of having no beginning
and no ending. Years and continents
apart and it’s as if
you’ve just left the room and in a minute will
step back, through the waiting door. I
think of all the cafés, in all the cities – Melbourne,
London, Durham, Geneva, Singapore on and on – and
all the conversations with friends,
lovers, teachers, students, ex-lovers, my selves,
all the beloveds. Somehow
they all seem to end up
in goodbye. I’m sick of goodbyes, I say, pushing
away my cup. Fed up of leaving and being
left.
You, being wise, say nothing. We watch the rain
that’s started, slanting and slight, drifting
against the window pane. Then
it’s time to go. We step outside. You
kiss me goodbye. I hold you forever. Driving
home, I hold myself
fragile around the hollowness that has blossomed
in me. Ah, my friend. And doesn’t the rain
have such loving, leaving eyes?