My Last Line Was Written Under the Bridge
My last line was written under the bridge—
where the river kept no counsel
and the stones remembered nothing.
A wind, thin as a beggar’s plea,
scraped at my coat
as if to ask why a man must finish
anything at all.
I wrote of the world’s crooked mercy,
of faces blurred by rain,
of footsteps that never turned back
once they crossed over into that good night.
The water below muttered its riddles—
promises of silence,
promises of depth.
I answered with a trembling hand,
and the ink ran like a wound.
If anyone finds that final line,
smudged on the page’s edge,
know that it was carved from a truth
I could not carry any farther—
and that the bridge, unbothered,
simply watched me set it down
and walked on.
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