i've dreamt about you every night. sometimes you are bringing me presents. sometimes we are just laughing in the kitchen holding beers. sometimes we are kissing. last night, we were in the backseat of someone's car, mystery person driving us who-knows-where. i was sad, curled up against the door, head resting on the window, trying to sleep. i think we were running away. you were holding my hand softly. sometimes you would touch my hair or cheek. you kissed the knuckles on my first two fingers. i was crying and afraid but your tenderness saved me from utter despair.

i could tell you small details about yourself that you would think went unnoticed

your cavalier mouth opening to finish off a glass of wine, mid-laugh
the adam's apple bobbing in an olive throat as you swallow, smooth shave
and the thoughtful way you mingle its tannins with the shiny mint
gloss i left on your lips as a kiss hello.

a crisp white cuff rolled over tanned forearm, tendons moving
and fingers lingering above certain piano chords, head bent
low in lost thought, short black hairs on the back of your neck raised
at my breath, fuming with liquor, and clinging to your body.

the blackfall of your eyelashes over pupils, lowered gaze
and smile lines deepening in response to my conspiratorial whispers
the conchshell swirl of your ear accepting all my unabashed promises
and the faint traces of your fingerprints causing friction under my skirt.

every layer of scent on your body: light cologne, fresh soap, pheromone
that unconcious sound you make over and behind me in our darkened room
every ripple in your body's muscles, a flexing loin, sheets in fists
your deep, soft cry. an out-of-mind overflowing declaration: in love, in love.

i see little boy you and old man you and all points between, in pale morning light
with your breathing in, and out, and an arm cast lazily against the headboard
your chest sunken in dreams, belly up, belly down
i rest my cheek there, count the dark hairs. my wrist white, your hip brown.

hotel room

hotelroom

it's one a.m and the clock numbers are blue, not red
flashing, not still
and the windows to the room
are blacker than night
a picture of pitch
a maw in wallpaper
textured art deco.



hotelyou.

i woke up to a breath unfamilliar, not unpleasant
hot, not a smell
and the pillow case on my cheek
was stiffer than starch
a crispy paper
a glow in my ear
fresh dis-ease.



hotelme.

i remember coming around, not from sleep
drunkenness, not giddy
and my head felt heavier than my body
loagier than luggage
a stuffed rock
a sloshing in my helmet
gurgling decisions.



hotelus.

your hands bigger, but not more than my breasts
observation, not comparison
and you moved slower than my husband
older than both of us
a gentle patron of discontent
a father figure
conjuring satisfaction.



hotelstay.

it's four a.m and your face is blank, not dreaming
mouth open, not speaking
and i hear a word in my head
discussing our engagement
a hint of disapproval
a smirk of satisfaction
slipping into cabs.



hoteldawn.