I wrote a letter to you today. You will
never see it nor learn about it. On it is
one simple question.

Why is it so **** hard to tell you I love you?

But I'm even too scared to ask you that.

I lost the rhythm of my heart
when my toes curled over those
chemically white grooves of
safety and bleach-ridden tile.

tightly, I wrung my right hand through your hair,
while the left imposed on your hip.
light sprinted past your scalp,
scampering over the night-riddled tangles
while we refused to detach from the grip of morning.

the palm of my skull,
my temple and cheek,
were a part of your hard skin, cleansed from dirt but
laden with chemical residue.

I was afraid your tattoo would leave an impression.

no words fell from our swollen tongues,
saving the humidity from pollution:
we gripped each other’s thoughts straight from the throat.

I ripped away my head from your chest, unzipped
my eyes to stare past airborne drops of liquid
straight into yours
while I gripped onto you all the harder.

finally, the marketing schemes and skin cells
were rinsed and toweled,
leaving us smelling
like everyone else in this,
yet another,
hotel.

Sunrise, sunset
Another birth, another death
A family, now separated
Daddy's gone, he never made it
As the light, fades to dark
The little boy, begins to walk
And wonders why his father isn't home
And cries in his room, all alone
And cries in his room, all alone