There’s talk of bridges
being burnt to
the ground, ones I don’t
ever remember crossing.
It puts me at unease
and makes me retrace my steps;

  but I don’t remember walking over you.

Your sorrow weighs on me
like a mischievous ray of
light demanding attention
on a sleepless night, and
I’d rather just pull the covers
over my head and pretend it’s
not there –

but you shine it right into
my eyes.

So I say
I’m sorry she broke
your heart,

and you ask
me why I’m so dead inside.

I suspect you’re genuinely curious.


3 thoughts on “Bridges

  1. Its about expectations.
    What we feel when articulated,
    we understand and refine ourselves.
    Sorrow and happiness are like playgrounds,
    where we learn to shape ourselves.

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