On the stairs of your house

There’s a letter in my hand. Yours.
I wrote it on the stairs of your house
While waiting.
Don’t you remember the day my heart went on a strike?
That wet summer day when they announced the king was dead?
Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!
My heart was dead . My mind was frozen,
Do you remember now?

I was tired. My feet were hurting, so was my soul.
So I sat down on your stairs.
People were passing, I kept writing and feeling cold.
Then the night came. Black and threatening.
I was tired. Of waiting, of you.
So I sat down on your stairs.
People were hurrying to their home, to their beloved’ warmth.
I kept writing and feeling cold.
But that was how it had to be, I thought.
You weren’t there, your home was locked, so was your heart.
How could it be otherwise?
I wrote my life while sitting on your stairs.
While waiting for your home and heart to open up for me.

Don’t you remember? The king died that day.
So did my love. On the stairs of your house.