The Walk

Knowing her is a slow cautious

walk, a grasping then a stagger 
up a tenement stairwell

in dim light,

where smell of patchouli sifts

still air and scrawls of graffiti

are engraved everywhere.

Each step arduous, harder

than the last, uncertain

if these cold stones can

hold the weight of my desire,

the freight of untamed worry,

my need.

Finally, breath heaving mind spinning

        I find her faded door:

a paint splotched wall at which I stare

and stare, bolted tight inside and out,

I ask you my hidden witnesses---

was she ever even here?