- Books, Literature, and Writing
With matches in hand, we walked on our bridge,
the one we called ourselves "friend" upon,
spread-eagle and squatting messes,
with embarrassed looks turning away from truths
and labeling us "freaks",
the one we lied to walk across while throwing pennies at the toll booth,
only I was always hiding underneath the blueness of your uniform,
set aside for another day, another week, another month
or until you discover that missing me was more than just a lollipop
or a sweet kiss that made your legs tremble, as my legs tremble for you.
This bridge is strong and wooden,
crackling with every step we take in our bare feet.
Your broken toes leave marks I am eager to touch and breathe in
like hot cocoa on a Winter morning.
With matches in hand, we walk on our bridge still,
time elapsing into something we weren't expecting
while finding magic in the sparkle of our eyes,
although denied and mistaken for an accident.
Candles flickering amidst lavender scents and cotton candy fingers,
we still enjoy our skins,
our wetness devoured like vultures on a carcass still living, still breathing,
keeping time in the simplest of things like a clock in a can
or your big watch under a pillow, hiding the reality you try so hard not to see.
The pinkness of my walls and the taste of the flower you say you are a fan of,
lays restlessly inside the redness of your beard, always wanting more from you.
This is our bridge, our matches, our fire, and no one takes it away
and no one blows it out.
This bridge belongs to us.