in my billowing smock dress
i cross the bridge in a daze.
it's the morning after. i am
toting a coffee, a bag full of
mistakes & a head that knows
only reckless beginnings.

it might just be the hindsight
of being watched, or wanted
or renouncing the fact of the wall
for all the floor's fictions,
but more than anything
right then & there
on the bridge,
in my dress;

i want
a true
romance.