Still.
This bridge to the bus stop knows my frenzied footsteps well. It’s a dance I do everyday. But today it stares at me like a stranger, it’s never known me to halt midway. Faces pass by in a flurry. They all have someplace to be. In its last breath the dying winter tells me, even January is making haste to leave. Maybe even I should head home now, the sun is getting low. But I want to stand here and let life go by, I feel no need to hurry. From its tinsel towers I’ve watched this city preen, on the ground I’ve heard its people scream. But from this bridge I see life itself, in the river of tarmac and gasoline. For is this life not a highway, where stillness is met with death? Where the soul is too nervous to look around, too wound up to take a breath? I know life is a highway, because it’s been mere moments since we met. But before we can let ourselves be seen, you’re another memory to forget. And though life is a wide open highw...