strangers on a stairwell.

her braid fell thick and black

down and down and down

looking like another spine 

swinging slightly on the grey of her coat

and i wonder if its holding her up

if somedays she lets it loose

and like a black shower

falls to liquid pieces

all across the expanse of her bed

and if she lies there and cries

gets heavy pieces of who she is

all over her scratchy grey coat

with nothing between her and gravity

but those thousand strands

that she after a time gathers

in her roughened palms and painted nails

and weaves back together

into a semblance of strength

because thats what a spine is for

isn't it?

oh i forgot.

you wouldn't know.