endings

There is a little bit of comforting myth surrounding endings. We tell ourselves that endings are merely beginnings. We tell ourselves that for a new chapter to start, one must finish. We tell ourselves that a new word begins after the full stop. Period. Two spaces (one, if you're feeling particularly naughty). Capitalise, and begin again. We tell ourselves this because no-one likes to think of something as just being over. No-one likes to feel like there's no going back. We tell ourselves this because it feels good. Truth is, sometimes an ending really is an ending. Sometimes there really is nothing more.

I kissed you goodbye in the sterile airport during a bungled embrace – an embrace halting and clumsy. An embrace made awkward by the bulky books in the pockets of my coat, by the impending end, by the lack of any true emotion left in either of us. Your nose was cold and made me shiver as it made contact with my cheek. We both new that there was no more. You would get on the plane, and take off into the air, while I would not even stick around to watch the plane taxi down the runway. In fact, before your luggage was even loaded into the cargo hold, I was in the backseat of a cab telling the driver to take me downtown. And right around the time the wheels of your plane were leaving concrete, I was hoisting a fresh pint of lager to my lips. We both smiled then. We both let loose a sigh of relief. We never saw each other again. Now, that's an ending.