The bridge you don't cross

I found it this morning

behind the book I abandoned,

wedged in the nightstand

like something I was hiding from myself.

The date on the back is April.

I bought it in the museum gift shop

at that hour when tourists

stop looking at art

and start looking for proof

that they were there.

The bridge on the front

is some bridge somewhere—

could be anywhere,

dusk light making it beautiful

in that generic way

that makes you want to tell someone

you saw something profound.

I bought it for you.

The back was supposed to say

something.

I never figured out

what.

It's blank.

Completely blank.

Not even my name.

And that's the thing:

I could have written it wrong,

could have disappointed you

with something,

but instead I did this—

this perfect, clean nothing,

this honest blank space,

this truest message

I've ever sent you,

sitting here unsent.