so you're sitting on a bed
it's not yours,
because the wallpaper around you is yellow and stained

you checked into the hotel at three in the morning
with a pretty boy and the promise of something that night

the sheets are crumpled around you
a pillow on the floor
and he's sleeping next to you
looking five years younger and
his hair is crumpled in a halo around his head
you're not lying to yourself
you know that you picked him up off the street after handing him two crumpled twenty dollar bills
he's here for the money
and you,
well,
you don't know why you're here

lying back against the yellow pillows and breathing deeply
hands resting on a sweat-stained stomach
and when you look over
his blonde hair is moving with each breath
mouth agape and
a light dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks
and while the sound of night and car horns permeates the room
the illusion that all is silent and still
and that the world is waiting for you outside this bubble of *** and safety
exists only in this dark room that stinks of sweat
and sounds like the shallow breathing of two miserable men

the low buzzing of the radiator and the strip of light from the underside of the fridge are the only illuminators in the room

his breaths lull you to sleep and when you wake up
it's only you in the bed with the afternoon shadows looming over you with a sudden finality

you don't see him again on the streets of new york,
or in the dark, grungy alleyways of the underside of humanity
and you can only hope
though why you bother with this teenage boy adorned with freckles and blue eyes
well
you don't know