She came through my door full of history, her cheeks polished silk smooth by the soft erosion of bitterly fallen teardrops and her hands wrinkled like the crumpled and torn first pages of unfinished novels – written, erased, crumpled, and tossed in the wastebasket.
Her shoes etched thousand mile indents, marking my entryway with traces of old alleyway shortcuts and once familiar roads. Each pace down my darkened hallway recited episodes of the solemn journey that first led her to the promise of warmth behind my door.
In the dim light of the doorway, the colorful stories etched into her skin flickered in and out of focus. I had to trace the outlines with my fingertips, so that no detail would slip through the cracks. She had chronicled all her stories in her skin, so I tried to grasp every detail, but so many times I didn’t know where to begin.
a passing through point on the road to somewhere else
or else a place to drop off bags and lighten the load for a short time during one night stays and brief layovers.
The only signs there was every anything there at all are ruffled sheets, indented pillows, the odd forgotten sock or sweater, a short letter, scrawled on hotel stationary, hidden in the drawer of my mind.
My arteries are clogged with the mass of small trinkets and memories left behind by people who have long-since forgotten staying the weekend within my walls.
When I met you, my hotel heart did not know what it felt like to feel like home, which may be why we began in stops and starts, departures and returns, each return uncertain.
When we would fall into a comfortable silence, each on our own phones, in our own worlds, connected by nothing but your head on my shoulder, I would fear we were falling apart and wait for the comfortable feeling to leave,
but it never did.
In those silences, we no longer felt the distance of being two people, no longer needed words to convey our thoughts –
just being together was enough.
In those silences that we shared my hotel heart began to feel more like a home.
By low lamp light and long after the sun has said its goodbyes Our weary and tired eyes run across unfolding pages Seeking all the knowledge that by the light of day passed us by And losing daylight hours in the process
We lean drowsily in reading chairs against bookshelf backdrops Watching raindrop reflections roll thoughtfully down window panes Borne along their whimsical way by subtle midnight breezes That dance strands of hair from our eyes like ballet
Our split screen symmetry is separated by mere miles Filling our solitary spaces with a shared energy So that each time my absent eyes turn to scattering raindrops I expect them to return to find you here
Each page I turn is soft marked with traces of your fingers And your scent lingers among allusions and allegories I hear each word sing out as though sprung from your alluring lips And I find myself smiling not knowing why
There is passion amid these worn out pages and bookmarked thoughts And the way your fingers traced each word is almost erotic Feeling my palms soft folded against the small of your book’s spine Makes me want to lose sleep between its covers
The silence between phrases pulses with such heated tension That I cannot help but lose myself in that silence so that I might grasp the pieces you let me see of your history And warm them tenderly in ardorous hands
The tired longing of the early hours of the nighttime Draws us both – at length – to the comfort of our separate beds Our internal rhymes slowly syncing through shared breath and heartbeats Dreaming of morning reading between soft sheets