We walked the Brooklyn bridge, drowned in bitter cold
that whipped mist from the Atlantic onto our tender lips.
Her dirty blond hair teased my face with constant brushes
instigated by the oceanic winds.
I still remember walking the tightrope between
every man's worst nightmare, the "friend zone"
and the place where our eyes intertwined into the story
of our happily ever after.
The Brooklyn Bridge never seemed long enough.
One day she invited me up to her room,
mementos of herself tattooed her wall
every piece of art, and photography,
a hearkening to a past I didn't know,
with insight into the future I wanted to live.
He called,
and she asked me if she should answer.
I liked her too much to tell her no.
I left so she could talk privately,
and that was the last time I saw her in person.
The Brooklyn Bridge never seemed long enough.
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