(Photo via withayou)
I check out half-way through.
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.
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.
to the silence between forced moans.
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
Reunited at last.
And I know it won’t last.
So, I check out early.
The sheets we slept under
beneath my jacket.
And he asks if I enjoyed my stay,
and I say yes,
sneaking after-dinner mints into my pockets
if you’ve woken up yet.