Twelve Carpeted Stairs.
I know....there are places I speak and areas I listen and I found the reasons behind the
colors
of Sarah's hair.
I could fly, I used to run so fast down staircases that were carefully carpeted with the
shades of blue my mother found....
....beautiful....
that my toes would lift and my arms would capture the breath of words that would never
speak themselves, the magical exhalations of things one should never say....
I'm terribly careful, darling, to never skip over the numbers, to never discuss why......
I know......the end result of speaking when my mouth is never noticed, I am well aware of
how light pink lip gloss accentuates words and I feel you when my promises tumble, head
over feet, head over feet....
down....
carpeted stairs.
Who was he?
The questions appear to me in dreams and the answers write themselves across walls I
hadn't read since I was eighteen but I have the photographs, you know....
I have full color pictures that document the changing of eyes and the fading of youth, I
keep them in boxes and in files I should have never cropped, despite my knowledge behind
the years....
I have tumbled through....
my hair never tickled my heels in ways that girls who turn themselves upside down do, I am
backwards....
you see, I have broken the hands of digital clocks and watched them through mirrors as
time deceives those who never figure out reflections......
but I told them, I taught him how to read the letters that never appeared
on the closet wall in the room that was above
twelve
carpeted
stairs.
Copyright © Jeanmarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007
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