The spiral staircase of loss
is calling to me, in haunting tones
the walls of this place
are built from echoes
every night my feet learn
the language of absence
who designed this torture?
was it you, shaping each step
to fit the tender ache of departure?
or was it me, building a monument
to all the things I could not hold on to?
now every night, I climb the stairs
that inevitably lead to nowhere
sometimes I see the ghost of you
for mere seconds in the moonlight
and the moon herself calls to me
and asks me why I am still here
© Ann Bagnall
Annie's Poetry 