Through the fog, between the gates,
I saw her sitting there.
This time, she was huddled over a little book,
writing something in it, there on the stairs.
She was always there on those stairs—
morning, noon, and night, without fail.
And always smoking a cigarette too.
I wondered what compelled her.
She always looked so lonesome.
I’d never seen anyone look so lonesome before.
It was as if she were a great void,
and everything around her
was drawn ever so slightly inward,
towards where she sat.
And whenever I passed those gates,
my eyes, too, were drawn in.
I passed her by, there on the stairs—
as I usually did—
and looked up at the sky.
Through the fog, I saw the muted light of the moon,
and for a moment, the wind stopped blowing.
I removed my glove, reaching for my cigarettes.
When the cold air touched my hand,
I closed my eyes,
and life went on,
with no real changes.