The car stops.
The headlights glow, illuminating dust from the road
that billows up in gusts, then slowly settles.
The engine idles, as do the passengers.

Both know the same thing:
that this is the last time -
the last time before he goes
He will return, but it still hurts.
It's painful, because it feels like an ending –
an ending before things even began.
The beginning was in sight,
the door had opened
and it looked marvelous.
It looked fulfilling, it looked deep,
it looked promising.
It looked like all that had been desired.

But here they are.
He's leaving, and that fact hangs
looms like a ghost
over their heads

They embrace,
reflected light from the headlights
falling over them.
Even that searching light
cannot bring them out:
it does not invade the warmth
and security
and emotion
in that last goodbye.

In that last moment, it comes out.
The true depth of feeling is revealed,
and both see just how much they care,
even though it had not been stated before.
After what seems like ages,
he kisses her cheek
tries to think of some encouraging words
to make life start again
Life returns –
the sounds from outside,
the light on their faces
With a last thank you,
she exits, and he sits quietly
listening to the car idle
as she walks away.