“that’s water under the bridge,” he said

water?

   under…

     the—bluht! 

she heaved

mud and stones 

and blood and veins 

and water as cold as  

her hand resting beneath his

he imagined her standing on the bridge

gratified, chest up to the sky

he couldn’t see she was holding on

from underneath

the current thrashing, wood biting,

rusted nails piercing into her skin

the water, chaotic as her heart

arms too frail 

to not let go

“that’s water under the bridge,” he said 

as her tender hands grasped,

clenched, at anything within reach,

nails bleeding as they

dragged along the riverbed 

head gashed, brain jolted 

from finally letting go

when her limbs and muscles

and bones 

said no,

you are just a body

    tumbling along 

        drowning,

             dreaming,

                 decaying,

                      on your own.

“that’s water under the bridge,” he said

as he saw her soaring, wings spread

a graceful dive from the clouds

and missed her burial

the ghost of a girl

drifting,

     sinking,

           surrendering to the sea

salt devouring her wounds 

a full moon pulling her to shore

cleansing her bloody heart 

purifying her torn tissue 

her angels whispering,

“you are whole”

and as she lay on the earth—

still, resting, decomposing,

he realized she was gone,

and began to weep.