Waiting Bridges

There is an old wooden bridge,
where my ground ends and yours begins.

It moans when you touch it
and will splinter in self-defense.

Life conquers that old bridge
weaving muscle under each board.
Movement birthing,
with great force.

Mending distance,
perceived as lost.
Left in corners of minds
with forgiveness, yet to be crossed.

An empty waiting bridge,
till you decide to let it all be.
You are grounded to one fragile end,
and on the other —
waits me.