#16

There on the Walnut Street Bridge at dusk as it drizzled, your form bent over the railing, hands clasped downwards toward the river, a processesion of pixels blue-grey beneath.


There on the Walnut Street Bridge at dusk as it drizzled, your form bent over the railing, hands clasped downwards toward the river, a processesion of pixels blue-grey beneath.


There on the Walnut Street Bridge at dusk as it drizzled, your form bent over the railing, hands clasped downwards toward the river, a processesion of pixels blue-grey beneath.


There on the Walnut Street Bridge at dusk as it drizzled, your form bent over the railing, hands clasped downwards toward the river, a processesion of pixels blue-grey beneath.


There on the Walnut Street Bridge at dusk as it drizzled, your form bent over the railing, hands clasped downwards toward the river, a processesion of pixels blue-grey beneath.


This is how I imagined you, Blake, long before I loved you, in a novel I would never write, conceived on a silent walk home through the city at midnight. How strange for you not to have left that pose. For me to find you there, still, today...