The bridge doesn’t hurry.
It lifts you just enough to ask who you were before crossing.
Fog edits the world kindly—
edges softened, noise forgiven.
Stone remembers every footstep anyway.
At the far end, a small shelter waits,
not a destination,
just a pause shaped like a roof.
I stop there.
Listen to my breath catch up.
Leave behind the name I arrived with.
Some crossings aren’t about getting over.
They’re about learning how to stand
in the middle,
where nothing is demanded
except presence.

💫Maggie

The Afterlove Voice 💫