Triste.

Even though I write poems from time to time, I also like to think I am a practical person.

There is something which I don't understand: with all that practice we have in airports, train stations, bus terminals, driveways, vestibules, vehicles, love shacks, bungalows, and hovels, it should get easier to say goodbye the older that we get. But somehow it never does.

I mean, we get used to so many things in our lives—snow, rain, pimples, work, even our own faces—but departure is always difficult. I wonder why that is?

Can anyone provide an answer?