I wrote Last Goodbye after seeing someone I used to be very close to.
We’d been friends. Collaborators. There had been feelings at one point, not entirely matched. By then, things were softer, more careful, but still charged in a quiet way. We sat together and talked for hours. The kind of conversation that makes you feel understood and unsettled at the same time.
When we stood up to leave, something in me caught. Was that it? Was that the last time? I didn’t want it to be. I also couldn’t pretend nothing had shifted.
Around the same time, someone in my family was unwell. That awareness was in the background constantly… the idea that any goodbye might carry more weight than you realise in the moment. The song came from that overlap. Personal history and anticipatory grief sitting in the same place in the body.
Sonically
This one always felt underwater to me. Not in a dramatic way. More like that muted, slowed-down quality you get when you’re holding your breath.
It’s built on a simple piano part and stacked vocals. Some of those harmonies are pitch-shifted so they blur into something like strings. There are little droplet sounds, faint textures, humming that feels half-formed. Nothing shouts. Everything hovers.
It’s sparse, but not empty. The space is part of the sound. Notes hang longer than you expect. Things fade instead of ending cleanly.
Lyrically
“So darling won’t you hold me one more time / I don’t wanna say our last goodbye”
That line still catches me when I sing it. Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s so ordinary. That instinct to ask for one more moment, even when you can feel time moving.
The song never says exactly what’s ending. That was intentional. Breakup. Illness. Distance. Sometimes loss doesn’t come with a label, just a feeling in your chest. It’s about that in-between state. Not fully gone, not fully here.
Visually
The artwork leans into the submerged feeling. Light breaking through water from above. Not rescue, exactly. Just the sense that things shift, even if you’re still floating in it.
Singing it
This song lives in my body when I perform it. The breath matters. The space between phrases matters. It’s quiet, but it asks you to stay with it.
Different people hear different endings in it. I like that. It’s not telling you what to feel.
A quiet goodbye
I still don’t know if that moment really was the last goodbye. But I remember the feeling of walking away with something unsaid, unresolved, still moving between us.
Writing the song didn’t give me answers. It gave the feeling somewhere to go.
Sometimes that’s enough.