The End

A moment is a moment. A time is a time. A place is a place. Your touch is delicate, soft as though you do still care.

You turn.

You walk away.

I stand, seeing you go as the wind spirals golden leaves down from the trees to heap them at my feet.

Each step I expect you to turn back, hesitate and then come running back. If this were a film or a book, that is what you would do, just before the words THE END on page or screen, as though something had been resolved.

You do not even pause; just walk on and out of sight. I wait until waiting becomes absurd and then too I turn and walk away without looking back.