You find me inconsolable
at the top of the stairs
The end of a necklace in my hand
We search and search and you tell me to pray to St. Stephen
"He is the patron Saint of Lost Things"
I have spent many days since
on those stairs
Searching for the things that fall between the cracks.
in my writing, and my cooking, and the way I tie my hair.
of glancing in a mirror and seeing you standing there
"Don't cry love" you say.
"I have been here all along."