The bridges that have held us stand at a distance from where I sit;
The bridge. Forty yards of tarmac floating on legs shy of the daylight,
melting into mud and memory-less water at its ends,
puts on its betraying act of solidity, suspended and vulnerable.
Marked by the gap in the skin that the papercut drew,
my fingers trace the line of the glass ceiling surer of its ending
somewhere on the opposite wall. It hurts my neck as much as staring
at busy people painted onto the window.
Inches away is the other side of the open door, where eras open
with only beginnings, spinning time-strings towards certainty;
in inky glitter written on every envelope through every door,
and shouted in the sinews of every nervous moment of waiting.
Red leather sofas relieve only my legs and greedily yawn
over their hidden pennies, papers, bits of games and curls of hair
I’ve left behind.
Dust and love, love in dust, and I must count the cost
of yesterday’s borrowed numbers on borrowed time.
These are my bridges and I will burn them,
I will burn them in forgetting
my promises to you, and I will burn them with your scribbled memos as kindling
and I will use our photos to fan the starved flames.