the July sun stabs her cheeks pink rose.
where is that wooden bridge i ask her
some way more she says some way more
she never forgets.
the bridge was half finished the last time we came
left us longing what mysteries the other side held.
*i think the water has eaten it up
tides are so fatal you know*
no way she says only some way more.
then it shows up
six months of wooden planks
six months of waiting
now proudly hanging on the river in spate.
let's go on the other side she cries
in wind scattered voice
her hand upon my shoulder rests.
her way she never forgets.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
the July sun stabs her cheeks pink rose.
where is that wooden bridge i ask her
some way more she says some way more
she never forgets.
the bridge was half finished the last time we came
left us longing what mysteries the other side held.
*i think the water has eaten it up
tides are so fatal you know*
no way she says only some way more.
then it shows up
six months of wooden planks
six months of waiting
now proudly hanging on the river in spate.
let's go on the other side she cries
in wind scattered voice
her hand upon my shoulder rests.
her way she never forgets.
a river.
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