The Little Bridge

Once, I pressed a hand to my chest,
“This is all that matters.”

I pressed that hand to my chest,
against a cornflower blue button-down;
the one that left two threads behind—
two strands of me, I shed—
in the moment that never stopped being.

The rippling green water under the bridge still drifts in lazy currents,
the cicadas sing from their hidden perches in the tall hot weeds,
and that muskrat chases a quarry it will never catch.

I am there, in that bubble of space and time that is
without start or finish, beginning or end.

You said we never wanted it to end.
And it didn’t.
Like my love for you, it will always be.

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