Sleeves of brocade and lady silk,

and woman's shoes on baby feet,

all articulate as she travels,

down 52 stairs

and 12 stairwells,

checking her lips

coloured (outside) the lines.

Reaches for the door knob,

tiny fingers leaving tiny fingerprints,

as the old wooden institution

beckons.

Walks (2 steps)

to fill his hand,

(so tiny in hers)

with a warmth they both knew (they missed)

(her, in her books, her words,

him, in stolen lines from stolen songs.)

She read him 4 chapters,

from 1 dusty old tome;

burnt her toes,

at a fireplace that was meters away,

(once upon a time)

and knocked her head

on a roof that used to be the sky.

He took her hand, in his unborn grip

(so cold in hers)

and wished her off

( .solid)

gazing up with honest eyes and a blank stare

(that more than murdered)

She left him,

gathered and bowed

through the indecipherable door,

with her woman's shoes,

in woman's hands,

(his tiny fingers,

leaving tiny fingerprints...)

and set out for the nearest escalator.