"I didn't mean to do it,"

she said, hands on the railing.

So much had passed through here

that she was sure her ghost touched her sleeve

and that she passed a cat she once met in Paris

but they are all around, aren't they,

and they all look alike

not like horses with faces of old men and rowdy children

almost ready to start inappropriate conversations with strangers

She spoke again-at least within herself,

even if the words only remained inside her mouth, dancing-

not upon the air of the bridge or the grey of the lampposts

but she told herself that she didn't mean to love him,

to love all the minute things of him,

even his eyebrows and the way he said hello

or that she'd rob the angels for time in his arms-

No, those words weren't necessary-

not to cross the bridge back into town,

back into seclusion where the light wasn't so bright

and the color didn't saturate the streets of the soul.