The River

I knew you were gone. You left long ago when the love ran dry under the bridge you leapt from. I can't bring myself there to place flowers or say a prayer. That's not what you wanted anyways. You'd only want a somber, sad song to reflect your madness.

So I don't know why I'm here tonight, don't know why I'm thinking of you so late. This stone is so cold on my fingers and I'm surely not dressed for this cold autumn night, or the grey, angry water churning below me.

It's far too late for a midnight swim; the lack of headlights only assures me how late it truly is. It's starting to get windy on this quiet highway and I'm not feeling the cold, not until my feet rest on the foot-wide piece of cement and discarded petals of dying flowers.

The wind ripples at my shorts and tank top, cloth not enough to keep me warm as the car parked by me grows cold. The beam I lean on feels surprisingly warm, but I'm sure you once did the same as me, just without all the same memories.

Even in the dimming moonlight starting to hide behind trees, I can find your picture. I get the chance to look into your eyes again, even if the smile on your face is painted on, eyes are darker than anyone ever perceived.

The frame is slightly comforting, like a last embrace, as I let myself go to the water we call home.