I watch you on the other side
as the kerosene begins to seep
into the deeply carved seams and cracks
in the wood of our footbridge.
Laughter echoes through the canyon,
off of the stone embracing the warm fog,
and through the vivid humidity streams
a myriad of memories,
in rainbows produced by rememberance light.
I weep quietly, and you do not see,
you are just a still-life after a year.
Your wavy hair, untouched, lay still
while winds whip around me,
dragging me from connection.
God knows I miss you,
but I do not know God.
He should help me.
He should guide me.
He should make it all right
to know you again.
He should put the words in my mouth:
“Hello, I knew you just a moment ago.
Can you hear me now?”
For all the things you never did,
should I be ungrateful?
You were a mirror,
perhaps too close.
My fingertips on our reflection
seemed to leave no print,
seemed to be a vain whisper.
When bridges are burned
and all is ash,
is rebuilding a track
backwards,
a straying from the nature of time?
Or is it a looking forward
to looking back on who we were
when we thought we could not be any better
and thought we were worthy of death and life,
all at once.