A different kind of concrete weighs me down today;
the letter in my pocket that you gave me to give away;
the words are for her and the feelings are so much truth
that when I read them for the first time, they didn’t slap me, they reached up,
patted my check and told me
that I shouldn’t have even bothered hoping
because
it wasn’t mine to hope for.

Yesterday I stood on the bridge for an hour,
watching the water fold over itself.
With my cheek on the flat of the concrete ledge and my
chest pressed into the side,
I could feel my heartbeat grow
steadily against
the cold
manmade stone.

It was easy for me to loose myself there
with traffic buzzing by as the
sun sank.
The cold bit at my fingers,
but the water was beautiful.

You lured me there, sir, the way the water did.
You fold over yourself, your words are cold water until
the sun comes up and reflects off of them.
Until the wind blows them in waves and
then the riddles begin to weave
and fold
and crease
until I can only stand above, and watch from the bridge

hoping maybe, like last time, you’ll notice me
so I can finally warm my hands.

The concrete still pushed on my breast
the way it did while I watched the water.
It’s funny how the cold numbs
and how the water distracted me from the pressure
that I was constricting my heart with.
I could feel the beating getting thicker as I stood there
resting my head on the concrete ledge and looking down,
but now that the cold and water are gone
the pressure is stiffening
and you never noticed me standing here, nor the concrete you just placed in my hands,
that I will cradle and handle
until I pass it on-
Maybe then my heart will stop hurting