What's Holding

The light comes through cracks

in the concrete, drawing lines

across my face like a grid,

like someone's marking me,

measuring what's underneath.

I've passed under this bridge

a hundred times and never looked up.

Today I do.

The rust tells a story—

how long it's been,

how much rain,

how many seasons

of nobody caring enough

to paint over it.

The tags are everywhere.

Names I'll never know.

People marking their existence

on something that's already marking time,

that's already holding up

the weight of all the traffic above,

all the people going somewhere else,

not looking down.

I'm looking down.

The concrete is a palimpsest

of markers and scratches and someone's

initials carved deep, probably years ago,

probably with a key or a knife,

probably with the kind of permanence

you only get when you're desperate

to leave a mark.

The light keeps cutting across me.

I stand here longer than I should,

reading the accumulated evidence

of people passing through,

of people who stopped and noticed

that nothing holds anything forever,

that even concrete cracks,

that even bridges rust,

that even the things meant to hold us up

are slowly, visibly,

falling apart.