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The neon pink eyes
of Marilyn Monroe
cast a blush-colored perfume
upon the stairwell below.
Beneath the gaze of Andy Warhol,
monotone voices hurl their
(overly dramatic) innermost thoughts
en route to the falsely
engrossed look in my eyes.
A flood of feelings
cascade down the carpeted steps,
puddle around my sneakers,
while I stand in front of the mid-ship elevators.
Cold, like a glass bottle full of milk,
solid as a Corinthian column,
damp air with the smell of stiff bed linens,
lit by the humming glow of a globe chandelier.
The uncomfortable Italian marble
made a personal forum,
where laughs echoed between naked walls,
and tears burrowed through her thin layer of make-up.
We shared our lives:
our truest, most honest thoughts.
And yet when I looked up at her,
she looked deeply into the soul
of the wrought-iron railing;
and then looked down at me,
I stared at the heavy velvet drapes
clearly left over from 1978
The smell of the locker room
(a conglomerate of cheap cologne and deodorant)
floated down the stairs,
ambushed us while we sprawled
on the graphite textured treads.
My heartbroken pal
is comforted by our heartfelt chat.
I told him what he needed - no -
wanted to hear.
And this may sound selfish,
but what I really was thinking about was:
Damn, my pants are going to be
dirty when I get up from here
I am always looking up to the next floor,
sitting on the tread
looking forward to each step to come;
but on life's staircase,
I can still look down at where I started
and relate to those experiences.
I think the most important things in my life
happen on stairwells.