If I started walking across that bridge would you walk halfway out to meet me? We could stand there in the dark, overlooking the tracks, and wait for that 4:30 train to come rumbling beneath us. You don't even have to say anything - we'll just stand there in silence like we used to and wait for the sun to come up.
You needed me then. I'd answer the phone half asleep in the middle of the night to hear your voice on the other end of the line: Meet me on the bridge. You called, not because you needed someone to listen to you, or give you answers, but because you needed the feel of another human being beside you. And I could do that. I guess if there was one thing I was good at, it was existing.
So we'd stand like that for an hour, sometimes two, and when the sun came up you'd give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and say thanks. I always blushed then, but in the halflight of the early morning there was no way for you to know. With lightened footsteps and a brain full of trains, bridges, and you, I'd make my way home and settle back into bed, wondering when would be the next time I'd see you.
I took a walk across that bridge the other night for the first time in at least a decade, maybe more. I stood there in the middle, a little drunk, staring down at the tracks - I was half hoping that you might come wandering toward me from the other side, but even I know not to ask that much of Moira. If I knew your number, perhaps I would have called and said, Meet me on the bridge, and I know you would have in a heartbeat.
Well, the 4:30 train didn't show up that morning - maybe it doesn't even exist without you. Hell, maybe I don't either.
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