sailor of bridges

 
‘you almost look like someone,’ I told her that first time, confusing
even myself. her annoyance soon devolved to a petulant smile.
‘you’re right, I’m nobody,’ she said. me too, I responded. suddenly,
we were kin to Emily Dickinson.

I mentioned a café that served Columbian decadence in steaming
cups, if she’d walk with me across the wooden bridge. an offer of
coffee is seldom refused.

some nights later, we were in a motel room just beyond the
Bridge of Beatitudes. as she lowered the straps of her blue dress,
I took her hands to stop her. ‘I want to see your body a little at a
time,’ I said. ‘I want to spend moments with your bare shoulders
before you show me your breasts.’

she was quiet then, only her Romanesque eyes speaking a caul
of unrequited tears.

how brief must a love story be? there is so much to be said, & so
little to be spoken. there are many rivers to cross, rivers that have
no bridges.

these nights, I have a notebook to record my loneliness, & I get drunk
on coffee & the smoky fog of a woman’s beauty  –  a woman who
almost loved me.

sometimes a stranger gives you a novel, thick with desperation &
romance, like For Whom the Bell Tolls. like The Grapes of Wrath.

sometimes she gives you a poem…


(Art: Photosensualis)