Ours is bridge of insatiable frost.
In crossing I am made horizontal,
humbled by your transparent tenacity.
I do not want to speak
of feelings or doings anymore.
I have no recommendations to give
if you favor me then you might as well feast.
I am only bones anyway
but I’ve plenty of marrow.
Your gravity pinches off my margins,
drawing out each breath,
a passive scream, two lungs
tenderized by terror.
My calendar is full of your musings,
of your footprints deep as fossils.
I would follow you to my own demise,
but purgatory does not allow
the visitor much of a view
and in truth I have no where to go.
(I am a bit stuck today and I know why.)