Melting Stone

The curb is dry but you still parked your car half way up the pavement. The empty glasses of yesterday still linger in your head, can't decide which is up and which is down and the colours are too bright. But her face won't vanish from your brain. On the bridge, in the forest, near the lake: You see her everywhere. She vanished for a second as you emptied the last glass, but only until you regained consciousness. Then she returned, like someone had pulled back the veil that just temporarily hid her.

You drive past her house in the distance, but don't dare to get closer. You're afraid she won't be waiting for you when you get there. You can handle admiring her from the past, but not losing her entirely. You're like a stone statue that knows its place: She may touch you as she brushes past, but you never ever can touch her unless she awakens you with a kiss. But the stone cutter did ugly work on you, or so you think, thus she is not likely to touch you any time soon.

She is like the late afternoon sun, mirrored in the lake. So warm, so soft, even without touching. Or like the bird singing her song on the power line, light-hearted and unimpressed by the power. Like the woman leaning a little too far over the edge. No, not like, she is that woman.

That's when stone talked to stone and the bridge awakened you to save her. The bridge railing can only hold on to her for so long, make it a quick drive, stoneman.