it's 11 and I'm staring at the hotel ceiling,
too late to call you but too early to sleep.
the same starched white sheets and rattling AC surround me,
echoes of countless nights like this, in rooms long since forgotten,
though I'd like to believe this one is special.
I am lying atop the sheets, fully clothed,
tracing shapes with my fingertip in the cracked plaster above,
listening to sirens on the highway below
as I try to remember the color of your eyes.
tomorrow I will wake and leave this place,
leave the memory of you for room service to take away,
to bleach and starch and place in another room all too identical to this one,
forgotten as I fall asleep under yet another hotel ceiling.