I don't know when to leave

a good ship is no match for the perfect storm

I don’t know when to leave
—leaving feels like giving up,
like rejecting the part of me,
that was desperate to make it work.

a good ship steers 
in the right direction,
under stable winds,
and clear skies.

the captain is only as good as his ship,
it is all he is.

until one day,
the waves and winds are at odds with each other
and no matter how good the captain is:
the ship (her crew) and the captain submit  
to the merciless power of the waves. 
goodbye’s are hushed
by gargles of salt water.
the ocean swallows her treasures,
as they quietly sink to the floor.

I don’t know how to say—goodbye.
goodbye has a permanence like death.

it removes people, makes them distant, and 
carves them into a primordial stone—
that’s the only way to keep them alive.

the city loses its charm
the painful parts once etched into memory
become neutral, diluted. 
experienced.
by other people.

my palms that held the hands of strangers
now shake into fists pointed at God.

I don’t know when to leave.
closure is a privilege
I am undeserving of .

one day I said goodbye.
left the city,
and rejected the part of me
desperate to make it work.

in doing so 
I accepted the part of me
that deserved to live.