Monday, 28 September 2015

the key turns in the lock securing all that is mine and i trace my fingers in spirals over the walls with their flakey paint and dance down the back stairs relishing the sound created by my weight in motion, leather against stone, smile at the randomness of the phonetic alphabet sellotaped to the door frame half way down and wonder, as always, why? then quietly promise to adopt the fern on the window sill in it's little red pot waiting for better days beneath the glory of a slant of sunlight shining through the warped window to pool in mottled patterns on the floor. this old building, home for now, soaks up our stories to mingle with those of times and lives moved on, i add to the ghostly memories these stairs have seen my own dancing footsteps, trace my fingers with intent in spirals over the walls with their flakey paint and when i reach the bottom place my hands flat on the cool blue walls and feel them breathe.

1 comment:

tentaculitidae said...

It's a privilege to live in an old house, the stone stairs, the way how you listen to the world from there... it resonates in a different way.