This staircase

These stairs I have ascended and descended from a thousand times. The banister is worn with a gleam that rivals a waxing. The wood shines like a meteor, the light bouncing off the curves like a mirrored ball. This carpet must be a hundred years old, its redness turning from merlot to scarlet to crimson, from pomegranate to carmine. Dozens of feet have tread upon its weary threads. Countless heels cuffing and soles scraping the tapestry into new scenes, puzzling shapes, unknown figures. These stairs have seen the ups and downs of lives lived and loves loved. On these steps I have heaved two bodies upstairs, mine and yours. Carried you up in the dense of the night, one bottle of wine too many down. Scooped into my arms your weightless form dressed in dove grey and lifted upstairs to your bedchamber. Or to mine. Your head nestled into the crook of my neck and shoulder. Your lips clumsy against the skin of my throat.

 

We will sleep. Eventually.

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