three minutes before the bomb
how could we know that something would harm
the perfect bridge we’d created between
trusting and dreaming
and all things of meaning
like colors we’d grasp in our outstretched hands,
pieces of places we’d seen long ago,
before life was defined by demands.
it’s not like I meant for this to occur
but I’d felt something that burned
deep in your toes
taking root in your soul
and I knew it would only grow.
so I called you here, to this place we’d once known
where I knew we’d be completely alone
(because after your screams and cries each night,
no one dared to come by our door
to our little catacomb with disconnected thoughts
strung through the air, but spoken no more)
I wanted you to understand,
needed to walk you through the things we’d planned
and remind you of what we’d once had
before you’d chosen the road towards madness
where figures lay waiting around every corner
and paranoia became a usual disorder
a way to guarantee you’d thrive
in this world, where light made you blind.
but I had a feeling that could be erased,
that you’d come back to me without being chased
by creatures without senses or faces
that still had ways of finding you.
but I knew your delusions would end
when you touched my hand
and in three minutes of silence we built in that gap
between insanity and saneness
a wrought-iron bridge.
and for three quick minutes
you didn’t let me go
but how were we to know
that this bridge was for show
three minutes before the bomb.