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Untitled
Branches shift the night. A hug of leaves seas the day. Someone, alone, between doors opens the time. His time clocks between his footsteps. Steps in the space between. Along he walks. Between earths he rides. Arisen are the arrows. Death upon the sorrow. Death upon the cry. What is it left? Time in one only point.
~ Athina Styliani Michou
Midway
The object on the stairs had been there forever no one moved it it had become part of the furniture part of the stairs
I picked it up a dust ring had gathered around where it sat and the carpeted stairs looked lighter where the object had been
it was warm from sunlight holding onto heat like old things do silent and steady as we walked by
we never spoke of it this object though we stepped past it daily it had presence an invisible presence midway on the stairs
I turned it in my hand something once useful now orphaned by context and yet still claiming space
it smelled faintly of time and old conversations
I didn’t know what to do now that it was gone from its spot I held its weight
and for a moment the stairs felt too open too empty too bare
I placed it back exactly where it had been let the dust ring resume like nothing had changed
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