Burning Bridges of My Memory

I’ve been burning bridges

inside my own mind—

not the ones that lead to people,

but the ones that lead back

to who I was with them.

Setting fire to moments

I used to walk across

like they meant something.

Laughter goes first—

it’s the easiest to doubt.

Then the soft parts,

the almosts,

the things I held onto

because they felt real enough

to keep.

I tell myself

it’s necessary.

That if I leave those paths standing,

I’ll keep wandering back,

keep looking for something

that isn’t there anymore.

So I light the match.

Watch memories catch

quicker than I expect.

Turns out

it doesn’t take much

to turn a past into smoke.

But the strange thing is—

even when the bridge is gone,

even when the fire settles

and everything falls quiet—

I still remember

what it felt like

to cross it.

The shape of it.

The way it held my weight.

The way it led somewhere

I thought I’d stay.

And maybe that’s the truth

no one tells you—

you can burn every path

that leads backward,

but you can’t erase

the fact

that you were once there,

standing in the middle

of something

you believed in.