The wood was rotting, so I

severed the connection

between our bridge and my land; 

I did not want it to become unsafe.

On the second night since 

it had split, you wanted 

to do something with the kindling 

that had been collected. You wanted

to light a fire with the intention 

of keeping warm. 

Winds wandered,

dominating what you had started.

And the flames spread, devouring

whatever wood was intact.

Your end of our bridge is in ashes,

blown to the bottom 

of the void between us.

My half is swinging over the edge

above the dark water that I hope 

your hopes drown in.