There is the traditional way. 
Standing at a bus stop...
Waving to friends...
All of those people on the inside...
In the game...
While you stand on the sidelines...
(Where you have to watch everyone drift away.) 

There are letters...
Dreaded phone calls...
Meetings in the rain...

The after math...
Pressed flowers...
Emotions detained...

Sometimes there are notes, pinned
up on the fridge...
And the smell of exhaust fumes...
Tire tracks leading out onto a bridge...
That stands between you and someplace...
far far away. 

Sometimes there are messages...
And they aren't ever written down...
And are often never read...
And the person...
That had no knowledge of crafting them...
Would then go off to someplace...
Where they couldn't ever be reached again. 

Sometimes there are words...
And sometimes words hurt...
And you knew they were coming...
But hearing thems worse...
And being left with nothing...
Kills you inside...
A little...
Every...
Single...
Time...

We have yet to find...
The easy way to express these dreaded words of
sorrow. 
For it seems that no matter how many words you use...
Whether it's written down...
Or spoken over wires a hundred
miles away...
Or an unspoken message...
On a cloudy day...
All of the words in the world can't make it allright...
Because no matter how you say it...
It 
will
still
be
Goodbye...