In my hotel room,
I pace the floor.
I hold my breath, count to ten:
She's out the door.
Alone again.

A few seconds of silence
feels like forever.
Lighting her cigarette:
Time slows down, stops
when we are together.
So it's too bad  
we blank each other out.
Both invisible.
"Please see me,"
I scream,
I shout.
I am miserable.
And need to feel something.
So on my hand,
I put it out.

And it left a mark.
A reminder.
That I could never
and didn't deserve
to find her.
To hear her words,
be in her thoughts,
to feel her touch,
to walk her floors.
Or to enter her house,
to open her doors.
To be washed up,
from the rough seas,
to safety on her shores.

Her city's wine was bitter
but sweet.
Under the darkness
and under bed sheets.
I felt a warm breath,
smooth,
Alive:
My haven.
My sweet retreat.
And heaven it was
hearing her heart beat.
Reassuring me
that she was there.
That she might feel something too.
That she might care.

And that wine:
Sweet but bitter.
A cruel mistress.
Covered in glitter,
glowing and shining
under bright neon lights,
dancing,
intoxicated,
high like a kite;
foggy of thought,
fading,
leaving,
disappearing
and gone
into the night.

And if you're reading this,
and you might:
Say something sweet,
Please say that I just
misunderstood
and that it's all alright.
Or say nothing at all
Don't raise me up
or bring me down
with your words,
your call.

But sometimes I stop and wonder:
Do you remember me at all?
I hope not.
I hope you don't recall.
It's best if you forgot.

Yes, it's best if you forget
the time you let
me hold you and pet
you, cold in the room
where we were warm,
with the window wide open,
smoke seeping out
from your cigarette.
We weren't supposed to smoke in there.
Something you'd regret.
But they cleaned our ashtray, anyway.
Nobody seemed to care.

You never seemed to care.

Opening the door, ready to leave,
you gave me a look
I could not believe
Did I ever meet you?
Was it all but a dream?
Am I now awake?
Is my life now seen?

You closed the door and became a stranger
and from that point on,
like seeing baby Jesus in his manger,
I knew the end of this story.
"No love,
no glory."
Crucified and all I got was this T-shirt.
I feel your pain, Jesus,
I feel your hurt.

Well,
I suppose I shouldn't look back
but it's quite hard
to put these memories aside,
to discard.
And to write rhymes
knowing full well,
like some hopeless, unfunny
drunk Irish bard:
That she's no longer mine.
She was never mine.
And I can't get over it.
Can you tell?

And can you tell:
That every unconscious breath
causes pain,
and every conscious thought
causes hell?
That I climbed up
into the lofty heights of my hopes,
that I climbed too high,
that I slipped,
and I fell?

And I am still falling
Her name,
I keep calling.
As I continue to fall.
Falling.
The taste still lingering.
Falling
and forgetting it all.