The Bridge

You told me about a bridge near your house. I imagine you looking over its edge at the water below. Do you see your reflection, or are there fallen leaves obstructing the view? What do you see when you look into your own eyes? Do you ever see the unfathomable depths that I do? Do you ever see the possibilities?

There’s something poetic about completion, about full years–full revolutions and finished orbits. A proper close, perhaps.

There’s something poetic about parallels, about two lines, infinite by definition–never crossing and so similar. Not meant to touch, so it’s said.

That day on the bridge, did you think about what might lay ahead? A path around the sun, a path through time, a path off the bridge and back home. There is darkness in space and darkness in life and there was darkness in that moment on the bridge, but you followed the path home, off the bridge, and through time for another revolution around the sun.

Then another, and another. There are only a few more until our paths cross.

We could have been parallel lines, remained as such–kept at arm’s length and never quite meeting. Within sight, but safely out of reach. You reached across that distance between us. I couldn’t help but reach back.

You begin another revolution today, another path around the sun. There’s a new path before you with each new day, each new rotation. I hope your path keeps mine in sight.

Keep reaching for me, love, so I can keep reaching back. You didn’t let go on the bridge. And I don’t want to let go now.