There was a phone number scrawled Atop the Motorway Bridge,

hotline to an angel,

who couldn’t quite understand,

but would endeavour to try.

Everybody is trying,

and life tries to be sweet,

but she just wasn’t made that way,

and some days,

people find themselves atop the Motorway bridge,

trying to stop their hearts from racing,

as car after car carries on beneath them.

Halfway down looks like heaven when you haven’t started your journey.

Soft numbness,

sweet sayonara,

sublime, short goodbye,

nothing but a withering remark from the wind,

and the relief of reprieve,

because, after all, what is life, if not a sentence?

Maybe they call.

Maybe they don’t.

Somebody hopes,

they try,

waiting by the phone for one who wanders too close to the fickle wind,

and the siren call of speeding cars from atop the motorway bridge.