She was on a road too narrow.
Too narrow to be rightfully called a road.
Too narrow for a car.
Too narrow for a cavalcade of motorcycles.
It was wide enough for only one.
One to walk down.
One to travel and get lost on.
Lost in one’s own thoughts.
And so she traveled on alone.
***
He was on a bridge too far.
Too far away to connect with anyone or anything.
Too far to find.
Too far away to see.
It was a forgotten bridge.
Because it was too far away for anyone to remember.
Too far away for anyone to travel to or on.
No cars traveled down it.
No bicyclists pedaled down its way.
No roller bladers swung their arms and hollered,
“Hey! Get out of my way!”
So, he walked down the bridge.
And he was all alone.
***
Her road was below his bridge.
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West Coast Review 