The long, drawn-out goodbye

By Emilia Petkowa


It had seemed impossibly remote –

An eternity, or maybe two, away.

But I felt it all along –

Detached, emotionless and omnipresent.

It was there,

                        on the edge

                                               of the horizon,

Out there,                                                                                                                                                                          in the hot,                

                                                 sticky darkness,

Intentionally tense,


It was palpable and barely perceptible.

I could almost touch it,

Like your hair the other afternoon.

(A sigh completely soundless, almost audible,

A glance across a crowded room.)


It hung in the air;

It was stubborn.

I begged: Go away!

But it wouldn’t.


And I would have asked you to come,

But I couldn’t –

There was simply

No time.

The rift was already there.

The precipice, the distance – her touch.



A hint of raw, and dark, and thinly layered,

Tearful silence,

A tint of sunset orange, river blue

And seagull white.


It was never going to be easy.

The long,




Emilia Petkowa grew up in a small town in Bulgaria and enjoys mainly writing poems and short stories. She studied Polish Language and Literature at the University of Warsaw. Prior to moving to Istanbul, she lived in the UK, where she worked in information technology.