The Hotel

"The Dark Forces of Symmetry" by Brad Kayal

(Photo via withayou)

I check out half-way through.

Sheepishly, almost.

As though smiling, you hope they won’t notice

the missing robe or extra pillow.

You take these things, not because you need them,

but because they are just sitting there,

maybe unused or reused.

Neglected.

Objects you want to give a home to,

lay rest in a drawer ooooh—

That embroidered towel

or branded stare—

your reflection in a sliding door.

Welcome home

to the silence between forced moans.

Unread Bibles

that line the walls of my gasping throat

and if you lean in too far

or just far enough

we can tumble dry in this rabbit hole.

Live at the bottom of a well; underwhelmed.

Well-payed in neon.

While the clock hammers nails into our coffin.

The tick tock

tick tock of loss.

I sit here, restless leg syndrome,

wishing that the second-hand would stop,

the minute-hand might pause,

the hour-hand will rest

against

them both.

Reunited at last.

And I know it won’t last.

So, I check out early.

The sheets we slept under

wrapped toga-style

beneath my jacket.

And he asks if I enjoyed my stay,

and I say yes,

sneaking after-dinner mints into my pockets

and wondering

if you’ve woken up yet.

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