To a cardboard, I leave you push pinned, in the Candlewood Suites. A printed photo and a failed drawing both attempted with the greatest of intentions, either for one another’s solace, or some attempt at self preservation.
The time we have spent together in this hotel with scarred green carpet has been exquisitely tortuous. I thank you for your acquiescence – you were kind enough to visit me in a shroud in the middle of each night, and then again as a cat on my chest in the morning catching at my breath playfully trying to make me gasp or even feign small deaths between sit ups.
It will not feel symbolic to leave your picture hanging on that wall. Nothing about you has felt symbolic although every moment has been exchanged for a subway token or lottery ticket. All in all a cigar box of Polaroids.
So real is the night, lover, so facetious the day.