Bridge
The tablecloth was starched and pure white, but the mahogany bled night. It captured the twin flames of the candles twice over, but it never knew the warmth of an elbow resting too long or the heat of a real fight. It was always your favorite piece. You were across from me, and you'd be talking about all the measurements that we'd lost 'til it felt numb. I kept watching your hands. Not your face, just those incredible hands, how they could fold a napkin into something hard as stone. The precision they used to execute a whole life, which I thought for years was love. Yet, those were the hands that held my winter like a coin you never meant to spend. But what did we cross? I still don't know. You're gone now, packed away with the meticulous order you applied to everything. You didn't warm me; you merely measured the temperature. We didn't try to find a lasting faith, but we built a bridge of flawless wood over ground where no river flowed. We walked on air b...