A Bridge

    If I could only steal your thoughts to build a bridge,
I would tiptoe the fuzzy borders of logic and reason
and the swirling ocean of emotion below,
gently bombarding the sweeping arches of
your consciousness.
Much like New York,
the bridge would seem to strech for an eternity,
and only when we reach the end would we realize,
we’ve been seeing the same faces for miles now,
and if you stare hard enough,
you can hardly tell the difference between
where we were, and where we are.
We pause, if only for a moment,
and I begin to paint your empty face
to match the horizon:
a smile so wide and incomprehensible
that from up close it appears a thin hard line,
but as I drift farther and farther away,
I begin to realize that it is far greater than I,
the curves of it’s majesty defining an entire planet.
That’s what I like to imagine,
when you glare at me,
that that cold, hard line is only a small part,
of something much greater.
And if I could steal your thoughts to make a bridge,
I still wouldn’t understand you,
but at least I could watch the ships float lazily on,
down the river.