BROKEN ARMS
I’ve never burned a bridge before; I’m not sure I quite knew how. To set something that you had spent 5 years building aflame, what a strange feeling. Our bridge was immaculate–or so I thought. We decorated it with trips to the Coast, videos to look back on, aggressive fights and passionate make ups, over-romanticized songs and letters, ambitious dreams and stories for our future together that we both quietly knew would never come to entify, and empty promises made simply on the place of circumstance. You said you built too much, you said I built too little. Well, my dear, a bridge can be the most beautiful in the world but if it has a foundation of sand, it is utterly useless. You can say I was attempting to work on the foundation, but you were ready to climb to the top.
Your songs are all the same. They start off soft and slow, with a tinge of hopefulness and an aura of a dream state. Then a beat that usually sounds the same in all of the songs comes in. It’s a bit aggressive and moody. This is what happened in our relationship. It started out as a dream. It was fulfilling, but remember, everything is always fulfilling in the beginning, especially when you enter into it empty. Our song built up to an angry and aggressive B chorus. “I hate you,” was the first line, “What the hell is your problem,” was the second. “Are you done being a bitch?” was the third. “I don’t love you anymore,” was the fourth. “I don’t really care anymore,” was the fifth. “I just really really like/admire her,” was the sixth. “Our relationship was always stagnant and frustrating,” was the seventh. “There’s really nothing left I have to say to you,” was the eight. “Leave me alone,” was the ninth. You wrote the chorus, my lines weren’t heard, my heart wasn’t given a chance to speak. So, if I may, I’d like to write the 10th line:
I wish you well.
Our bridge was unstable, our song was a joke written under a pseudonym. I’ve never really burned a bridge before. But as I drove home from work last Thursday, driving through my coastal desert, memories flying as fast as I was driving, I took out a tiny match. I lit it, threw it on to the bridge, and watched 5 years of heart ache burn. My white flag was thrown in with it.
Those ashes serve as a reminder of what I will not tolerate for so long again, and while they won’t follow me around, they are there in case I ever want to remember to keep looking forward.
I’ve never burned a bridge before, but what a beautiful feat. You may never choose to write a song about me again, and in the end that is a good thing. You may never choose to call me, write me, or speak to me again. But if that is what you choose, that is what you choose. My dear, our bodies may have destroyed the friendship our carnal flesh made, but my soul will always call you my friend. Surte Forbear. Live wild, my bridge is burned.
