The bridge

 

Drawing footprints

into the soiled ground.

Dragging heels across

the concrete-poured

pavements. Slumped footsteps,

arched back aching from carrying

too many dreams, and no one

holding mine, this bridge to a life

that is always out of arm's reach.

Behind me fading in the dust

as age walks in.

 

Who would look at this man

with love again? And if they did,

would I trust that they saw me

for my heart and not as a doormat

to wipe the dirt of their own life?

 

And I circle back to a memory.

Chemistry or telepathy, elements

at play. Empathy, or a pathetic need

to believe that someone would see

me and lay a rose for me?

 

And that perfume still kisses

my skin, and my heart still beating,

though its rhythm is slowing.

I'd happily carry your dreams discreetly,

whilst discarding my own. For mine

are seeded into my soul, a flower

ready to bloom whenever in need.

I'd hold an hourglass and I'd wait,

for however long those grains of sand

need to take to fill the empty space

that sits beside me.

 

I will see that smile

in my deepest dreams,

and I'll still kiss the air, in hope

that it touches your cheeks.

I will breathe. And I'd sing if you

said the words I wish to hear.

 

But silent streets are like rivers

as you watch dreams flow away.

And a roadside seat is a cold place

when you are sat alone. And tears

sit in puddles reflecting years

you've spent waiting. But I'd wait an eternity,

if it meant your heart sat beside me.