Tao Writer – The Crushing Weight Of GoodBye

She told him what had kept her away was Death. But he rejected that excuse—for Death, he said, can never come between lovers.

Naguib Mahdouz (December 11, 1911 – August 30, 2006)

E7A2315D-2343-4BB1-84B7-67B903DD4FDBTao Writer (April 17, 1948 -)

I never thought the last time we said,
“Good bye,” would be the last time.
If I had known, I would have done it differently.
I would have said to you one more time,
“I love you.” Though I told you all the time,
this time would have been different— if I had known.

Our last embrace would have been much
tighter and a lot longer. Our last kiss,
more than just a brief touching of lips.
It would have been a most soulful kiss.
The kind that made you tingle with anticipation.
The last time we made love would not have been
so rushed by flight schedules and other lives—

If I had known it would be the last time
I would look into your liquid blue eyes,
I would have searched more deeply for reassurance
that you were coming back to me.
I would have made sure we had enough time
to complete the book I was reading to you.

If I had known it would be the last time
I would touch you, I would have defied the Lords
of our Life and Death, the very fates themselves
would be unraveling the threads of death they weave.
For if I had known it would be the last time I would
ever see you, I would never have said, “Good bye.”