Room 168, the Hotel S-
The door opens to a married man, a single bed.
You’re not here, but your presence is everywhere. The bed is meticulous, signs you’ve been here are subtle, imagined, your outline dimpling the duvet, just a trace; I laugh at the allusion, can hear your voice dismissing it. I briefly close my eyes and your lips are pressed against mine. Opening them, I unwrap the chocolate, another temptation, instead. “Will you join me?” I ask myself, having asked you already. Neither of us answers definitively. My phone, shortest distance to you: a message, a picture. Clear signs, vague plans. I reciprocate, wondering if I can handle this.
The ‘should’ is vague, shouldered away, locked away, imprisoned by our being freed, by our need.
The door already opened, to be closed by your hand alone, but in which way?
I open a book, your recommendation, and wait for a knock on the door.
Ben Gedaliah lives in awe of poets and artists to the point that his
hands shook while typing the email to submit his work pseudonymously.
He remains in shock that his work shares pages of this journal with
people whose work he’s admired from afar. Find him on Twitter @cloaksure.
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