I walk the bridge at dusk,
each plank holding echoes of footsteps that aren’t mine.
Bridges don’t ask questions,
they just hold the distance between two hearts.
Each plank remembers the footsteps
of those who crossed before me.
Each plank holding weight
it does not ask for,
and every step
is a promise to the unseen.
We cross,
half afraid of falling,
half longing to arrive
on the other side
where maybe someone
is waiting.
Bridges do not judge
the haste of hearts,
nor the hesitance of feet.
And in the hush between planks,
the distance becomes something soft,
something that waits
for us to trust it enough to walk again.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 7:14 PM UTC
I walk the bridge at dusk,
each plank holding echoes of footsteps that aren’t mine.
Bridges don’t ask questions,
they just hold the distance between two hearts.
Each plank remembers the footsteps
of those who crossed before me.
Each plank holding weight
it does not ask for,
and every step
is a promise to the unseen.
We cross,
half afraid of falling,
half longing to arrive
on the other side
where maybe someone
is waiting.
Bridges do not judge
the haste of hearts,
nor the hesitance of feet.
And in the hush between planks,
the distance becomes something soft,
something that waits
for us to trust it enough to walk again.