there's a girl on the stairs (a short short story)

she steps into the winter evening and glares
someone somewhere is calling her names, telling people she is not effective, she does not affect
he even went so far as to look her in the eye, say 'i do not love you anymore'
she slapped him and walked away
that is the way of things, air moving between flesh and emotion
creating sound, the words from her mouth,
they form on the air, a cold winter chill, 'fuck it all'
she stands on the ground for a moment,t hen feels something stronger
the air, it lifts, and soon she is smiling, letting the fingers caress her tear-stained cheaks
before she can breath, she is off her feet, still laughing
it is like taking a buble bath, she thinks, but without the soapy mess
although the air on her skin will likely chap her, like water-wrinkles but colder
she feels the ground leave her, feels the sky join her merry reverie
she has stopped laughing finally, when the moon comes out from his clouds
gently, she reaches for him, unclothes the night, and sees the stars
her skirt is high above her knees and she is glad for her mother's old winter coat
a black mass of fur to match her black silken hair, spun from misery as much as love
the world is a mixture of metals and fluids, she thinks, why can't there be more air?
and she rises, and she falls, and she leaves the story behind
the sky not large enough, the night not deep enough, the man nor the moon-man lithe enough
to catch her melody, her voice on the wind
'there's a girl on the stairs
there's a girl who isn't there'