You crossed the bridge, into dark.
They say it is light there, but I know it’s not. The bridge dangles in two parts, like a snipped string. Today, I’m buying a hammer and nails and rope to make the repairs and bring you back again.
Will you speak to me from the other side of the bridge? Will I hear your voice or will you hear mine?
At its edge, between the hammering of nails, I shout into the void but you are not there. The darkness gushes below and above. It steals away my words and throws them back at me, filling my unending silence.
I loop the rope around rope, around wood and wood, and piece by piece pull up the bridge.
When night falls, I sleep on the planks I have repaired so far and dream of your face in the light.
I wake in the dark and drink the wind and hammer more nails in, tap-tap-tap. I listen for your call, thundering towards me across the void, but I hear nothing.
When the I am halfway done, it begins to rain. The bridge sways and bucks lightly, swinging and groaning. The planks I have repaired stretch out across the chasm, waiting to join hands with you.
The next day, I’m trying to untangle a portion of rope that has become lost around a plank and I drop the hammer. It tumbles and twists away, sinking into the darkness below. I wait, listening for the sound of landing, but there is only stillness.
I sit down and cry. I pound the planks and try to keep going, but without the hammer, it is useless. I look for a rock, but I can’t pry any from the ground. I go back to where I got the first one from, but there are no more.
All I can do now is go down, into the deep chasm, to find it, but I’m afraid that I will never return.