Hair – unruffled. Not a strand out of place.
Jeans, long-sleeved t-shirt – unbuffeted. Yet, a rush of air courses over the exposed flesh of my face, my hands, my feet like a strong current of water.
There is nothing – not a floorboard, nor weave of threadbare carpet; no slim scrap of terra firma – beneath me.
I hang in the air, motionless; arms snugged beneath my ribs…
…and the stairwell rushes past; floors and hairpin-turns of banisters whip past in a blur.
I am surrounded by heady, accelerated motion.
Do I fall?
Or does the structure rise skyward in reckless urgency?
Suspended, I blink.
The stairwell streaks by.
— C.Birde, 1/18