Under the bridge, the lights on the bare trees are eerie. The trees themselves are skeletal, the solitary beams of light illuminating their bare limbs, as they reach upward toward the moon. Though the clearing is dark there is a subtle magic almost physically present, as if the trees might uproot themselves and come alive at any moment or the silvery rays of light could be something more than just light, but magic themselves, imbibing the underbrush, and whatever lives within.
And you, dancing about on the beams of the bridge between life and death. Dark and light. The pure rush of defiance; sweet and strong. The cool air fresh in our lungs, awakening the live nerves that are forgotten in stagnance.
I found this crumpled piece of paper in my room when I was cleaning, yesterday. I'd scrawled it out after a late night trip to the 11th street bridge one cold night in february. Looking back on those solitary pieces of paper I find around my room is always a trip.
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