For Beth:

You’re leaving.
And I can’t believe it’s true.
You’ve been my other half for three years now;
My best friend, the twin I never had.
Three years of happiness,
Three years that I never wanted to come to an end.
Somewhere, deep down,
I knew they wouldn’t last forever,
But I had hoped for one more year.
Just one more year.
Because then we could both leave at the same time,
Both of us to England,
Both staying in the same country at least.
You in Devon, with your dog and tree-house mansion,
Me in Wiltshire with my big garden and proper bedroom.
We would still meet up—
After all, we would only be two hours apart.
It wouldn’t be the same as two streets apart,
But it would be far better than two countries.
Of course—that doesn’t actually happen.

You’re leaving,
And I’m not.
I can feel the tears running down my face;
Little rivers that leave salty trails behind them.
I don’t do anything to stop them, to calm down.
The singing is almost over,
That song in your honour-for your family.
They were my family too,
But that doesn’t stop them from leaving.
Doesn’t stop them from pulling us apart.
From breaking us.
They know we’ll both get over it,
You in England,
Me staying in the country I was born in.
You in Devon, with your dog and tree-house mansion,
Me here—in Germany—with my lifeless garden and attic bedroom.
We can’t meet up—
After all, we’ll be in different countries soon enough.
It will never be the same as living two streets apart,
And we’ll have no means of communication.
Because that’s the reality of the situation.

You’re leaving.

When you left, I cried all summer. I was inconsolable, and my parents didn’t know what to do. We had a few weeks—a few glorious weeks of summer before you left for England—and we made the most of them. We spent as much time together as possible, you and I, but it would never be enough.

When you left, I told myself that I would move soon enough. I consoled myself with the fact that we would see each other when I moved to England as well. It would only be six months—a year at most before I would be in England—and we would meet up again. We would be back to how it was before, you and I, but it didn’t happen like that.

When you left, I checked my dad’s emails every day. I told myself that you would write as soon as you could. It took two years—two of the longest years of my life, waiting and waiting for your message—before you emailed me to say that you were moving house again. We lost contact after that, you and I, but I never forgot about you.

 

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