in a hotel room on december the 17th

eyes irritated by the smoke and grime, i can’t quite focus...can no longer see you. can't quite remember how you smell, how your skin feels brushing against mine.

some 17 years of hampered ambitions clutter the neglected furnishings of this dingy stasis…motel 6. surrounded by swirling specters, thousands upon thousands of abandoned souls hoping to be reclaimed like some otherworldly lost-and-found...mostly lost, few ever again found.
threadbare armchair cramped in ill-lit corner vibrates sympathetically with thrumming heater...last feeble cry for attention...some recognition. i parenthetically acknowledge its existence and move on.
smudged full length reflection fights its way through the heavy air from across the room and for a moment i meet its gaze. ‘who are you, who are you this time’, tom waits sings to me from crackling lo-fi. where have you been all these years? was it worth the price they paid, this lurking behind scattered likeness? their pills took you away from me and only in the stale empty hours do i still catch glimpses of you.

vision clouded by the distance and time, i can’t quite focus...can no longer see you. can’t quite remember how you smell, how your skin feels brushing against mine. in lucid moment i accept that somewhere in the wilderness outside these oppressive, peeling walls there is a person i love more than all the pain, more than all the failure i covet. somewhere beyond this cage there is a person i call home.