Once I crossed a hanging bridge.
where the planks were missing,
I could see muddy water roiling below—
and the planks that were present
were rotten. That’s the nature
of bridges. Eventually, they fall apart.
Like this one between you and me.
And the nature of love? To rebuild.
And when that fails, because
even the best tools don’t work well
in unskilled hands, that’s the time
to know when to quit trying to fix,
to jump in the swells and swim.