I wanted to be on that Bridge.

On that bridge…on this cloudy rainy afternoon.

The old wooden bridge…over that wild stream. The stream that is moody and drifting….feeding all those wild orange tulip bunches….

flowers that nobody notices unlike us when we sauntered on the outskirts without realising we had left the cities behind.

I remembered….it was an old wooden rickety oneway bridge….

we couldn't hold hands and crossover.

Nor could we cross from our opposite ends to meet.

One had to lead…..one had to follow.

That is how some bridges are….

I wanted to be on that bridge..again.