ROBERT KINCAID (Bridges of Madison County)

ROBERT KINCAID


He could barely see the road
Through the tears and rain
The sight of her one last time
Cut him into, again & again;
As the miles turned into weeks
And weeks turned into years
He had to face the final truth
He had to face his fears.

She was not joining him
On this golden path called life
Nor was she ever going to be
His best friend, bride and wife;
How could she know that
His life would be in vain
If he couldn't have her
Under his skin again?

He held his camera in his hands
Like he'd held her soft body
And as he shot more bridges
His thoughts grew more naughty;
How he longed to touch her
And have her touching him
They belonged together
It could not be a sin.

As his hair turned silver
And his pace slowed down
He hopped onto a plane
And wandered through her town;
But he could not make himself
Break their hearts again
So he sat beneath the bridge
And scribbled with his pen.

He carved their four initials
Right into the wooden plank
"RK" loves "FJ"
And then he drew a blank;
Would she even see it?
What else was there to say?
He threw the pen into the air
And slowly walked away.

Sometimes he felt her presense
And smelled her perfume
He would reach out in his sleep
Then awake alone in his room;
And when the end came for him
He screamed for her alone:
"Francesca, my darling....
Come now, we're going home."