By the time that you read this I will be gone.
If, in your sleep, you turn, your hand may catch this envelope,
Its foreign presence may even wake you.
You might, perhaps, tear it open, pull out the note and open our curtains.
Even if you see me on the street,
By the time you have left our room, run to the door, I will be gone.
I write this because I know I will not have to face you;
That I will no longer have to catch that look in your eyes;
I will no longer need to rise early and watch you sleeping,
So that I don’t have to face that look, that look that you carry with you each day.
The dark hatred of betrayal that has become
The look that you wear, each day, every day, each minute, each hour.
If it were up to me I would leave without saying,
But this note is my: ‘Goodbye’. I will walk to the end of the road;
I will walk past the playground, where we played as children;
I will walk past the house that I grew up in;
I will only stop walking when I reach the destination
(without me saying I know that you shall know where this will be).
Later you will find me there,
After reading this note, after reading my final goodbye.