Bridges

Julie Christman
Aug 27, 2017 · 2 min read

I’ve gotten used to burning bridges. Sometimes I even like to watch the flickering light as it takes over, turning everything it touches to charred remnants of what once was. I’m fascinated by the isolation and quiet after the last crackles and pops. It’s a habit as old as I am, and yet, sometimes I still light the match a moment too soon, with one foot still balanced on the wooden ground. I’m held so dangerously close to free-fall then, suspended 100 feet up over water so black and bottomless that I could get lost at the sight of it. I’m not afraid of the height, or the murky depths below the surface because somehow I’ve always managed to step off just in time to watch the structure dissolve into the inferno.

This time is different from the rest, though. This time, I’m standing next to you, right in the middle, my eyes glued to a candy-cotton horizon. I hold onto you like a lifeline, contemplating the fear that buzzes through my veins and into my heart. For once, I’m afraid of the flames, the ash, and the destruction. I’m afraid of myself; I know that I’ll panic eventually. You’ll take a step back and I’ll strike the match immediately. Just a little too much distance between us and I’m liable to send us both crashing down into a chaos of embers. Before I met you, I thought that I was used to burning my bridges. Standing beside you now, I’m not so sure. I’m terrified at the thought that perhaps, I’ll have to watch this crumble in a white-hot blaze and I don’t want to give you up just yet.

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