The train hustled over the bridge,
escaping the twisted tower of Malmö,
a fugitive’s exiting all the way
to Copenhagen’s mermaid.
I watched it recede, red taillights disappearing,
another sip from the blood poison.

Beside me he remained silent,
his gaze fixed on the churning sea.
“Another train gone,” I muttered,
“another chance to leave.”
He turned, his eyes glinting in the dying light.
“There wouldn’t be a chance. Not anymore.”

I remembered his words,
spoken years ago on this very spot.
We were just old then, still defiant.
“We’ll go there one day,” I’d vowed,
clutching a vial filled with a vibrant red liquid.
“This town can’t hold us.”

The train’s mournful wail echoed in the distance.
“Times change,” I’d argued,
my voice laced with the bitterness
of years spent drowning sorrows.

He shook his head,
a single tear tracing a path down his pale cheek.
“No, dude. Times are a river, always flowing.
It’s us who build the dams,
who choose to stay stagnant
or let ourselves be carried forward.
We chose the crimson dam.”

He offered a last,
a ghost of a smile.
“Maybe,” he said,
“maybe one day,
we build a new bridge.”