The Return

I haven't walked this bridge in years,

the highway takes me through instead.

But today the Morrison Bridge appears,

and I'm back where I used to tread

with someone who was close to me

before they weren't anymore.

A jogger runs and I can see

their footsteps sounding from below.

The gray water moves like slick and light,

a rainbow that means nothing good.

My hands grow cold against the height,

the way they did when we both stood

right here and looked at all below,

at everything we thought we'd become.

A pigeon lands, unbothered, slow,

a witness to when we were young.

I don't know who I'm mourning here—

the self I was back then,

or this stranger who lives in fear,

who doesn't know how to call again.

The bridge is the same. I've changed.

I'll walk back the way I came,

and leave behind what's been arranged—

the sound and the other's name.