Don’t Want to Say Goodbye

I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want to say goodbye in front of someone else, like I know I’ll have to. I don’t want to say goodbye without a hug, which I’m sure will happen. I don’t want to say goodbye and cry, like I’m sure I will.

I don’t want to say goodbye and send you off knowing that your health is going to decline. I don’t want to say goodbye when I know that you have the same fear.

I want to say that you’ll have a fantastic time and be a fabulous doctor. But I’m too scared.

I’ve got to grow up. In sixty six hours, I’ve got to say goodbye. What will be, will be. I just hope that in the mass and the mess, you don’t forget the past few years.

I have no choice, I have to say goodbye. Practicing under my breathe isn’t going to make it any easier, but I can pretend that it might.

Living. Laughing. Loving.

alex122rw

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