The Bridge

The Bridge

What does it mean
that I love the bridge best?
That I only start to listen
when the melody loses its way?

The chorus coaxes
even the most reticent to sing
the verse’s steadiness pulls
like a puppy on a leash.
What does it mean
that it all feels hollow
without the bridge?

The chords grow restless,
a key we did not expect,
a dissonance not authorized,
the bridge begs—
Is this the song
we thought we knew?

Loving the bridge is
setting out for the tomb
while it’s still dark,
a desperate faith
that the song isn’t over,
longing for a life that is more
than chorus-verse-chorus
enough to awake,
to walk into the darkness alone.

How far I have wandered
from my safe, familiar melodies:
the bridge, a father, running
across the wilderness of my own making,
calling my name.

What does it mean
that I love most
the moment
before the chords
tumble home?

What does it mean
that I want a miracle
that is more than a morning?

That I want Love that’s a bridge—
One who keeps singing to me,
even in the dark?