Not the Initial Bridge
There was a bridge before this one.
It was about to fall.
I kissed my teenage love upon many times in all.
Our initials we carved in the wood where we stood, when I was seventeen.
Ten years came and went I drove by with much forget, but watched as they took what was left of remembering regret.
Now a fresh new passage remains with no names to comment on who goes or who came.
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