Nick Johns, 24 Aug '12
I keep telling myself I shouldn’t oughta come up here, but somehow all the roads in this town just end up here anyhow.
The water that flows under the bridge is new every day. It don’t come back to the same old place – not like me.
Never the same since the old bridge broke up. Always looked kinda tired and sad, like it wanted to be in the water – then one day it was. Washed away the road – but not the memories.
This new one now, it’s a different bridge entirely. New, shiny, strong – but outta place here somehow. No history, ya see?
Harder to see the water than off the old bridge too. You’d have to climb now if you wanted to throw somethin’ off.
I always see things best from right on the edge - down there.
The hand rail is hot as hell, and slippery too, what with sweating hands and dust and all. Easy to see how a body could lose their grip and fall. Or you just let go, just let the water take you, wash you like the Jordan, deliver you to a whole new place.
It’s a pretty spot though. Always was. Same view every June, flowers blooming all along the ridge, like always.
But now I got no flowers to throw.
I don’t do that no more.
I guess enough’s been lost off here over the years as it is, without me adding to it.
The water’s still muddy though, that never changes.