we stood there together
on that rickety old bridge;
a long line of parallel planks
bound together with the same rope
that ties us to each other,
to this fate. to the fate of
every rickety old bridge.
the cliche bridge; rotting,
unstable and swinging across
this narrow canyon; it linked
those two sharp cliffs who pretended
to know nothing of erosion.
high above the hollow that
channelled our vanity, we were
suspended over the naive canal.
how could we ever think
that such a fragile bridge could
uphold the weight of our hearts?
when the rope bridge snapped
between us, and those rotting
panels were sent spiralling
to their watery grave,
we rejected ours. we refused
to let go. we voyaged back up
our separate slopes. the tough
climb on a rope ladder up
these steep bluffs.
we are just as much fighters
as we are lovers. we could not
give up until we reached the top,
until we could gaze across this gulf
into the faces of one another
that we could scarcely make out.
so here we are, on opposite sides
of this gully, this trench, this
erosive vein. i call to you
across the gap, but you can
only hear my echoes
bouncing off your bluffs.
it is precisely this precipice
that we gorge ourselves on.
we've both thought about
jumping into that depression,
of drowning ourselves in
that deep gutter that
we've climbed so far
up our broken bridge
to escape.
