So if I must say good-bye to you, I will.
Good-bye, not as in turning on my heels and strutting off, head held high, no sideways glances. Good-bye, as in you mustn’t leave me, as in I need you still. Still moving on, as the crow flies.
Smart buggers, they don’t forget. They recognise faces. They leave little gifts in return for food, and take messages from those who’ll not return.
Good-bye, as in a gift I leave you every day, paying my dues, marking time. Moving on every day as the crow flies, returning the next to take my leave and go.
Believe you me, I’ll make some progress:
The distance between here and there isn’t so very far at all, as the crow flies.