I climb out of my cupboard to the vacancy beyond, the stairs absent her footsteps I so often strained to hear, all gone, and gone forever, not even the echo, only the remembrance of it, the clatter of her heals below, muffled by the carpet, yet still there, the hurried movement passed where I set, a pause, a moment, slightly above, to take stock of me and my attention, to determine if I cam looking or not, moving on when satisfied I am, while pretending not to.
I climb out of my cupboard because of hear none of that now,
only the footsteps in my head, and how I will neve hear it all again, for good
or bad, while the ache I feel remains, magnified by the lack of their reality,
my step replacing her step, just not the same, like a ghost who haunts this
place, and me, most likely forever condemned to carrying the links of chains I
have wrought, when all that has filled this space has gone on to fill some
other for someone else.
I climb out of my cupboard thinking I might be surprised somehow,
finding her footsteps still there, when I know they won’t be.
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