Your heart sent an emissary,
and it arrived without shape—
a flicker, a hinge,
a breath that learned to stand.
On the broken bridge
it gathers itself into form,
choosing bones from fog,
choosing stride from memory.
It names the crossing
in a language I don’t know,
syllables that taste like metal
and old rain.
I carry it anyway,
because carrying is the only way
the bridge remembers
how to be a path.
🥅
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Author:
pontefract (
Offline) - Published: June 30th, 2026 03:48
- Category: Love
- Views: 12
Offline)
Comments1
Most metaphoric this poem speaks to me of maintaining old ways. Well written
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