Hotel
I had a dream last night.
The type of dream in which I stumbled out of bed, still fully dressed, doused in a rum-induced daze and I stood upon the balcony.
You stood beside me, the green condo silent behind us as fireflies of flashlights illuminated the blackened beach.
The waves rolled in and out, in symphony with the beat of my pounding heart threatening to burst from its prison cell.
My long dress flows between my legs, delicate, diaphanous materials whisking against sticky, bare skin.
The jumble of tendrils blows in the wind, not elegantly or prettily, more-so awkwardly and I bat it away from my face before you catch my face caught in a sea of red velvet curls.
It’s late at night. We’ve overstayed our welcome. I’d say you’ve overstayed your welcome in my hotel-like heart, while everyone checks in and out you’ve managed to stay, continuously extending your visit. The maids bring you fresh, cotton towels and toiletries to make your visit comfortable. Right now, every other room in my heart is vacant, some visitors have recently checked out— a month ago it was a girl short black curls and a warmth that made everything feel like home; nearly two months ago it was an awkward boy who never should’ve checked in.
But now there’s just you, in this hotel heart, and I’m not sure I can handle complete vacancy.
Please don’t turn all the lights off.
The type of dream in which I stumbled out of bed, still fully dressed, doused in a rum-induced daze and I stood upon the balcony.
You stood beside me, the green condo silent behind us as fireflies of flashlights illuminated the blackened beach.
The waves rolled in and out, in symphony with the beat of my pounding heart threatening to burst from its prison cell.
My long dress flows between my legs, delicate, diaphanous materials whisking against sticky, bare skin.
The jumble of tendrils blows in the wind, not elegantly or prettily, more-so awkwardly and I bat it away from my face before you catch my face caught in a sea of red velvet curls.
It’s late at night. We’ve overstayed our welcome. I’d say you’ve overstayed your welcome in my hotel-like heart, while everyone checks in and out you’ve managed to stay, continuously extending your visit. The maids bring you fresh, cotton towels and toiletries to make your visit comfortable. Right now, every other room in my heart is vacant, some visitors have recently checked out— a month ago it was a girl short black curls and a warmth that made everything feel like home; nearly two months ago it was an awkward boy who never should’ve checked in.
But now there’s just you, in this hotel heart, and I’m not sure I can handle complete vacancy.
Please don’t turn all the lights off.
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