It's in the Leaving That Time Stops

It’s in the leaving that time stops.
The moment I drove away from the airport drop off
and watched your face through windows panes for the last time.
Deep despair painted you dull and washed the last bit of brightness from your eyes.
But the brightness I’d always loved had faded years prior.
In the years of darkness ripping at your soul under the name of Bipolar.
Under the pursuit of narcotics and drink and sleep and rage to bury and burn the sorrows away.
The last bit of brightness had long gone.

At the airport, bittersweet, to drive away and start anew.
Our time together had grown cold, distant, and stained.
But my heart continued to ache for the love and light we’d once made—that had once ignited you despite the darkness.
When was the last time I’d seen the joyful embers of your soul when it wasn’t smothered by fear? By panic, by hate?

That day at the airport would be the last I ever saw of you. The last I’d ever touch you. Or tell you, “I love you.”
Because Death had other plans.
And now that last time in the airport truly is the last,
and like that…
it’s in the leaving that time stops.