bridge over troubled water
What do you do after a rupture?
Exhale, down an amaretto sour, click-clack-click-clack, onto the next thing?
Or dwell on the pain that is the impredicability of humans?
Curse your instincts, sew your heart shut?
We were something both of us took for granted,
so often how the mechanism of friendship works-
no need for affirmations, explanations or declarations of intent.
How could we know that big chunks of our common lives would soon be cut out, obliterated, meaningless?
How does anyone ever know before the event?
Perhaps a table of content would have made all the difference,
could have prevented the piercing of hands and feet that must come before the absolution?
Only gaping holes were left after the crusade was over.
Only filtered images of another life, where there were were dogwalks, weekend trips and drunken confessions.
I like that 'getting over' evokes a sort of imaginary bridge that we somehow must climb to be OK.
I just wish the damn thing weren't so difficult to locate.
We don't stumble through the present;
we create it for ourselves, incredibly, moment by moment.
And so we invent our lives in the remembering,
I'd like to remember mine from the other side of the bridge.
