The final thought to form before goodbye
will not recall the lover’s kiss nor mark
the dappled shadowfall of bright September
days, nor acknowledge the soft metal taste
of blood beneath your tongue. Neither news feeds
nor slideshows, achievements, failures, money,
friends, nor anything you’ve had. The final thought
will be the didn’t do—not the success.
The unacknowledged plan. The incomplete.
A dream. An arm outstretched, an empty palm.
Goals left unattended for better days
that never came or came and went. The thought
will be the should have said, the should have done
while the lump that rises, that beats in your
throat, sinks to your heart and death dilutes you.