When I look at you, you are a hotel room.
I see the people that have come and gone,
staying for the moment before leaving you forever.
I see the things that they left behind,
things that were never meant to mean a thing
but suddenly became your everything.
I see the trashed rooms of your soul
and the repair bills they never had to pay,
the *** on the sheets where they left your heart
to lay at night.
I see the waterlogged carpet from the storms
that you wept and the tired springs of your
levied will just barely holding in.
I see your four walls.
They are ***** and cracked at the corners where they meet.
I see you, hotel room and I see your imperfections.
And yet when I look at you, you still feel more like home
than anywhere else I know.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 1:01 AM UTC
When I look at you, you are a hotel room.
I see the people that have come and gone,
staying for the moment before leaving you forever.
I see the things that they left behind,
things that were never meant to mean a thing
but suddenly became your everything.
I see the trashed rooms of your soul
and the repair bills they never had to pay,
the *** on the sheets where they left your heart
to lay at night.
I see the waterlogged carpet from the storms
that you wept and the tired springs of your
levied will just barely holding in.
I see your four walls.
They are ***** and cracked at the corners where they meet.
I see you, hotel room and I see your imperfections.
And yet when I look at you, you still feel more like home
than anywhere else I know.
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