The wood of the worn out, out lived,
lived through steps feels smooth,
the fading paint in blisters: was it
originally red or brown?
The ghost who went here often
in her wedding gown, would she
still haunt, or did you make her up
the same way that you loved me?
The wood feels smooth and polished
from years of going up and down the stairs,
is like the ghost and I: fragile, threadbare,
bare, tattered. All in deepest, painful red.