When you are a hotel

Tell me a story, you say, Late at night, under the comforter, on a cold summer night.

You’re a writer—write me something. Something beautiful.

When you are a hotel, I begin, Each night when I check in, I will open up each room, to discover different memories of where we’ve been.

The states we’ve visited?

Of mind, I think. Of the anger that rises With the memories of my hips under yours Of the confusion trying to pace through old arguments. Of the sorrow when I texted you At Grey’s Papaya Was I drunk then? Maybe. I might as well have been, The world blurred in dingy smears That might as well be alcohol.

That’s terrible, you say, And bury your face into my neck. It won’t be like that, ever.

The night clusters around Our quiet festival, Two bodies strong.

- What about the joyful rooms?

They become sad when you go. - Well. Then I won’t go.

But you are a hotel. Where stays are fleeting As the Dalí compilation at the existential bookstore, As autumn in this environment And economy. Going is part of your ethos Or telos. I can’t remember the right word.

-You’ll visit?

(While running your fingers through my hair.)

Occasionally. Spontaneously. When life takes me to Carmine Street, sure, I’ll walk down and remember the way your coat smells in the cold.

I’ll check in occasionally, I promise. I’ll ramble through old halls, remembering when they were familiar commutes And daily passages.

I’ll stay in different rooms, Test out their shower water pressure. But I’ll leave, in a morning or two. You’re not hospitable to long-term residency.

You kiss me softly before you sleep. I stroke your hair, slightly greasy with sweat, And watch stars rise through my window.