The Bridge

I watch your car drive off the bridge from the riverbank. The dogs are barking from the fence and some people are crying, but not me. You’re screaming at me — I can hear you. You scream at me until the car is completely submerged. I can’t see you, but I can hear you and it’s all going to be okay now.

The fire in your back yard is dying but I can still see a few pages from the books and clothing refusing to burn and get blown away. Ashes blow on top of the water that has to be your soil now — your grave — and the ashes will have to be your flowers because I don’t owe you anything.

One summer you asked me what made me love you the most. I told you it was the fact that one day you’d die and I wouldn’t have to see you anymore. You slapped me and hated me for it, but you wouldn’t leave me. It seemed to only make you love me more. I reminded you that I had said it many times. It didn’t matter.

I never even wanted to meet you. The introduction would have been enough, and then I could have never seen you again. I would have been fine with that. But now you in your car trying to prove something. No one knew what that was.

As your car slammed into the water I remembered that night we met, how the whole time we were talking I wished I could just run. I could have left and we would never have met again.

But now it must end with you screaming at me through your sinking window. Keep screaming and I’ll stay here. My life will be fine without you.