By Abrahim Harb
If something feels off,
it is—
The lamp bulb smashed as I stare off into the distance—
And I walk across the sparsely lit bridge to clean the mess.
One piece of glass wedges in my big toe.
I lunged forward in pain—
And another piece wedges in my heart.
I fall backwards, grasping my chest, only to have a bigger shard of glass stab my backside.
Building walls—burning bridges—erasing paths—and unraveling life.
The color of the pristine carpet is altered by shards of glass dripping tears and blood—the carpet fibers soak the concoction.
And then we never spoke again.
I burn the bridge to create light—
Sit by the bank of the river, weep, laugh, cackle, and many other emotions ooze through—
Suddenly, there is illumination to assist in moving onward.
The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.
The tree is what made the bridge.
The bridge is what connected the two.
And the two are no longer two who walk the same path.
The path required erasure from nonexistence.
