They leave things behind,
junk and garbage sometimes,
but also books
the pages wrinkled with dried rain
and blotted with ink.
One time also a baby bird,
pulled too soon from its shells,
her eyes glistening now
with everything she doesn't see.
This is what they left behind on the bridge.
There was a bible once
and a ceramic Santa Claus. Marbles.
A box of baby clothes, moldy and stained.
Wishes are left here too, whispered from dry lips
falling from tear stained cheeks
tossed like coins down into the exhaust of the cars below.
If this is where we say hello, then also say goodbye.
On this bridge they leave love notes
and dog collars,
empty chip bags too but also
parts of his soul,
bits of her heart.
I have walked this bridge twice a day for four years
so I know that
I am leaving parts of myself on this bridge too,
so that maybe someone
else will see them,
and then we will know I was real.
These are the sacrifices we leave.
Cheap tokens of our existence
so that maybe we can have one more day,
of searching, of dreaming
of reaching through the wires
of love, yes, of fingers almost touching
but also one more day of hope.
2 hours ago