Bridges Stories

I stood on the bridge;the hand in my pocket holding thewatch you gave me before you died.it sat there alone in its perspiringwomb. the dark was more thannight; it squeezed through mypores. the glass grinned sheepishly, like a drunken mourner, and the numbersfell about likehailstones; but it was the hands that lifted an Accusing finger. as I looked down, a darker Me thanI looked up,and made me see that it wasIwho had empti...