I can't go where you go.

Remember that time we were just two kids sitting on the curb, tossing rocks into the street, talking about the future and where it would take us? Or the time we perched ourselves on top of the railroad car, wondering if we stayed there, where would we end up? On Halloween, we terrorized the town, shooting shaving gel on the windshield of every parked car. It turned cold and windy that night and we sat on your porch swing and shared your jacket.

That bridge we used to cross isn't there anymore. They tore it down and put something more stable further down the way.

That last night the world had frozen over. A thin sheet of ice covered everything from the wooden bridge planks under our feet to the heart barely beating in your chest. We watched the icicles fall one by one. They shattered on the frozen stream below and echoed against the rocky walls of the ravine.

You swung your legs over the railing, turned to face me from the other side and dared me to push you. I told you to fuck off and quit playing around. You were trying to scare me and it worked. You said if I didn't push you, you'd jump anyway. I tried to act nonchalant. I shrugged my shoulder and said whatever. 


I knew you were just crazy enough to do it.

You laughed and called me a wuss.  I tried to distract you with a kiss. You were so cold, but the kiss was so warm, I melted into it. I didn't notice you were pulling me with you until it was too late.

I tried to hold on, I swear I did. I spread my wings to fly, but I wasn't strong enough to carry you. FLY, damn you! I screamed. But you wouldn't spread your wings.

When you hit the stream below, there was no echo against the rocks, no scream of regret, no blackbird's lonely call. There was nothing but the dull thud of hopelessness hitting bottom.
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