Rust and Silence

The cables, crusted flakes of orange rust,

rattle soft in the wind’s late breath.

I stopped mid-span, a cold nail through my chest,

holding the silence between two shores.

Below, the truck’s tires hum against cracked asphalt—

a slow song of weight and waiting.

The wood groans beneath me, tired, unsteady,

and I wonder if it knows my hesitation.

A bridge: not quite home, not quite escape.

The sun dips and shadows crawl up the girders,

paint peeling in flakes like old promises.

I stand, caught between the leaving and the left behind.

Nothing here holds steady except the breaking light—

and my breath, the soft crackle of rust under fingertips.