Bridges, And Real Bridges.

The light and wintered cobbled streets,
That hold our name,
I cannot write of the beauty that I see with you,
Your arm at my waist as we scour the Cadbury centre.
And the white sunlight against the windows of the olde shops.
The history we discover as we attempt the memories we make.
And I’ve no longer words, but I cannot write nothing!
I long to unleash terrible things to you,
Unimaginable future that hold us both!
I stop myself at the empty walls we pulled down,
And I wait for you to join me.
Hiding at the bottom of a cage,
We lie in wait of another day,
For another may be the opportunity we seek,
And the other might be the binding fear,
With light-hearted tear and want!
Want of it all!
You, I saw you across that browning street,
And I thought I saw her horrid silhouette,
I thought of your waistcoat wavering undone,
And I felt your hair in my grip from afar,
And you entered a door I assumed I would never see open again,
Once more I had turned,
And missed your returning.
But I met you on the bridge,
Oh how I met you on the bridge,
How alcohol lingered in my breath,
And every sense I had was mine,
For it all felt like nonsense.
For I wanted to reach into you,
Into the nothing I thought we would ever become!
I looked into the kindest eyes of blue, I gazed and perhaps never gazed away,
For even then I did not know what I would do with you,
I did not know if I should see you in my home town,
By my sea or at each smile or frown.
But I never, in wake, touched another I never glanced back.
The moment you managed a kiss unto me,
I could not climb back over that wall.
I waited on your words far from me,
And I let my heart leap about the page from which I deciphered,
All the unimagined feelings you portrayed!
Now I may even make up word!
For I have nothing to say to you,
For you feel it all.

A quiet wait at the end of a working day,
It would see you having already returned,
A stationary silver car beside a bank,
And summer threatening at the backs of the walls,
But the scent was warming.
We bought a few things together and we took a trip back to my place,
Idols on the television,
And you but metres away from me.
But hours away from me.
A rush of hours, a mind of weeks,
Trips in your car and the music, it speaks.
The sun above and the night all about us.
‘Your voice, it keeps me up at night’.
And you finally return your kiss to me.
You return your delicate hand to my face,
As if you had never handled so precious a thing.
Than corrupted little I.
I needn’t have even wished that I had never felt another touch,
For I hadn’t. Not like this.
And I wondered then what I would do if I threw caution to the air,
The waters from the docks,
If I dove into nothing headfirst.
If I couldn’t see a metre in front of us in the fog and yet I pulled us through it,
A speed of which I slowed,
With the beating of my heart,
As I first felt yours, beating against my chest.


And I do believe, that had you not crossed my path,
I would have crossed yours.
And we did meet , at all times and never the same,
We did speak the same mind.
I discover, still, why this place has a purpose.

Lightening heart of yours,
Always takes the darkened; mine.
And bleeds into it,
A sort of golden blend,
A feeling that bares renewal blind,
But forceful.
That puts a hand in mine,
That lingers a gaze in mind,
And only with eyes as yours,
Do the crystal seas seem true.