A name on a map helps me to find
A bridge I picture in ugly, inelegant concrete
When I think back to an old exercise in
Vanity: idealised autobiographical tales
Shrouded discordantly in imagined names.

Her stories tried to steer away from clichés
In exactly the same way as so many others,
Yet I fell for them as I fell for her.
I talk of her now as I would an elaborate
Confidence trick, but I think she fooled
Herself as much as she fooled me.

Some of what she told us I chose to
Believe, my doubts masquerading as
Mere projections of my insecurity.

Protestations of hatred towards a boy
Who let her read his literary vanity
Come back to me for the first time
This century, along with surprise
That I am thinking of her again.

I hope she has grown out of
That emotional immaturity that was
The only thing we really had in common.
I have, but I have retained the guilt
That I have never been certain
I should feel for all those things I said
For want of knowing better.

If she was able to follow her dreams
She will be a thousand miles from
That bridge now, but I am unable
To follow her across to the peninsula;
For me the bridge turned to ash years ago.

02/10/2007

Posted on 04/08/2007
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