Muscle Memory

I haven’t been inside this building in years

but my knees felt the weight of the old, heavy fears.

I stepped in the stairwell and started to climb,

my feet hitting rhythms from a different time.

The echo is hollow, a slap on the wall,

and I knew exactly where the ceiling would fall.

I didn't remember the number or the floor,

or the way that the light hit the frame of the door.

But my hand found the rail, that cold, vibrating iron,

before I could think of the name of the lion.

My grip tightened up on the rusted-out bar,

recognizing the handle and the old, jagged scar.