All I can think about is you

and birds. Did you know

their bones are hollow?

It makes them lighter,

the same way your voice

weighs easy on my ear.

I don’t want to create a metaphor

out of flight. That would be bold

and ridiculous, and we both know

you’re pragmatic. So maybe

you wrap my wings when they snap.

So maybe you bring me twigs.

All I’m saying is there’s nowhere else

I’d rather nest. I mean that I’d find home

in whichever tree you rested.

I’d build houses on your body.

I’d pepper a city through your feathers.

For a very long time I used my writing as a way to vent, or cope with the things that hurt me, or when I needed to get something off of my chest. This is one of the very first poems that I ever wrote.

A little girl facing the world alone.

Everyone else had one why didn’t she? What had she done wrong?

The love she gives is pure and true.

She writes a letter every time she misses you.

Maybe if she wrote enough one day you would walk through the door.

Maybe then the ache would leave her heart, and she would hurt no more.

But no matter how much she dreamed and wished you never came.

And she was forced to grow up with a heart filled with pain.

Her father broke her heart before any man could.

She told herself no matter what she could do it without him and she would.

She did everything she could to make her mother proud.

Her mother has sacrificed so much for her, so she would have to make it worth

while.

A heart full of hate even though she knew it wasn’t fair.

But he had missed everything important to her, so she couldn't bring herself care.

She is all grown up now, and she doesn’t write anymore.

She is all grown up now, and she knows her father isn't going to walk through the door.

I took a deep breathe and looked down at the water. All’s well that ends, right?

“Can we can talk about what you are about to do?” a voice from behind me said.

I was startled, but I kept my composure.

“I don’t want to talk. I don’t want help. And I don’t want to ruin your day. So let’s just say you saved me. Ok?”

“I’m Todd. What’s your name?”

I had driven over this bridge maybe 40 times. Vomited over the ledge looking down, maybe a half dozen times. And in none of those visualizations had I ever imagined meeting a heavyset bearded man named Todd.

I turned around.

“Your shaking,” he said.

“Must be the cold.”

“It’s 70 out.”

I stared ahead blankly.

“Would it be ok if I gave you some hot chocolate? My wife made more than I can drink. It’s just over there.”

He motioned for me to walk in front of him, and, not knowing what else to do, I obliged.

We walked silently towards a utility room that was attached to the bridge. The walls in it were lined with folksy pictures of cottages.

“I monitor suspensions of old bridges for the state,” he said as he poured me a mug of cocoa.

“Must be nice,” I said.

“It’s alright,” he responded.

I started crying, and then talking.

He listened to it all, ocasionally chiming in with: It’s alright. It’s alright.

After a few minutes, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

We stayed silent for a few minutes afer that.

“You don’t have to have a fucked up life to be fucked up,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

Another silence.

“My wife is cheating on me,” he said.

I took a sip out of my mug.

“I came home early from work a few weeks ago. Saw her through the window on the couch with a guy I knew. I just left. When I came back he was gone and I didn’t bring it up then and haven’t brought it up since. Ain’t that fucked up? I’ve rather be a cuckold than lose her.”

I pretended to take another sip of my luke warm cocoa.

“My wife didn’t even make me this hot cocoa. And my shift ended hours ago. I just come here to sit and think.”

It was his turn to pretend to sip from his mug and my turn to break the silence.

“It’s actually nice to hear somebody else’s fucked up story. It’s comforting in some strange way.”

We sat in silence again.

He offered me another cup of cocoa and I accepted.

When I left two hours later, we didn’t exchange numbers, we didn’t agree to write, and I still wasn’t sure if I even told him my name. Instead we shook hands.

“Those meds seemed like they were working, you just weren’t on them for long enough. Plus, another therapist might be better than the last guy.”

“I’m going to try, Todd,” I replied.

“That’s all any of us can do.”

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Me, too. But can’t stop living just because you feel like it.”

“Right.”

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight,” I replied.

I never saw him again. But I think about him often, especially on those warm days when I’m drinking hot cocoa.

Yet is weird,

Like ying and yang.

It can lead the way,

Or trail off at the end...

And yet...

It can resonate with hope,

Or impending disaster,

In either path it takes.

Yet there is more...

Connotations of things to come,

Or things that will idly be put off.

A variety of instances,

And circumstance,

Depending on tone and expectations.

Quite a range of complexity,

Sometimes even sounding proper,

Yet a simple, little word.