The Elevator

My fingers play a tasteless rhapsody
as I slowly rise to my doorstep;

watching my fingers dance in the mirror
I realise
the girl in the elevator
has lost her voice.

It is the season of sickness
and longing wraps its long fingers around my heart.

I disappear into darkness,
a soap lather feather
dissolving in the shower.

— -
Note: This poem was published on Spillwords on July 13, 2016.