before the chasm inhales
a pallid conjecture of
who is right and who is wrong.
I will walk delicately across the
bridge of apology and offer,
after careful admission,
a thunderstorm of tears.
A plaque of a thousand remembrances—for one,
your yellow sticky notes on our bathroom mirror—
and me looking up from the linoleum
It is better to be in love than to live
fervently on the edge of tomorrow,
clamoring like the wind
for one more chance.
I cannot build the bridge without you. I have the toll in my pocket.
—Michael James Fitzgerald