She

She took the steps without much looking or trying, without much inhibition, she felt at ease with the descent as much as she would receive from a brief afternoon walk. And I saw the back of her head and gawked and stared at her face, and kept on with her last remaining steps, as if doing it would make a lot of sense, make sense out of nothing, or make something sensible, or something really, when in fact I’m aware that I looked on simply because it would be the last, and a delay of a few moments or neglected glances I felt made a crucial disparity. In the height of such moment of subtle inconstancy and carelessness and stupidity, especially against me and totally against me, I could not imagine what kind of thoughts, or if there's any, she might be bringing down with her or leaving behind her haste now, as she winds down hurrying past the long cold iron stairs that swirls and confuses me the more; vindicating my already stalled and decent mingling confusion, as to see her hair and her head to toss and turn and sway while she puts up her smile that almost laughed as she took flight, now that everything has been said, or at least I had something to say, and that, or this, should probably hurt, and there's no telling how foolish an attempt to describe all of these for nowhere and no thing would ever suffice, if such instances should materialize. But it did of course, it’s just that I am still quite unsure and denial makes a lot of good and reasonable sense.