there is a bridge, south of town,
where we made paper promises
and let them fly in the wind,
or sail down the coulee,
"to the ocean and beyond,"
we'd joke.

but it seems the only element we were left with
burns like the vinegar of mama's home-made pickles.

those promises didn't stand a chance against the fire
in our hearts.

09/03/2006

Author's Note: This was approached differently by me as the writer... It's not perfect, but it's refreshing.

Posted on 09/03/2006
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