Your poems live inside me.
They ebb and flow like the tide.
Turning my every thought to you.
I see my name on every page you write.
Maybe its not supposed to be my name on your lips.
But I imagine it there anyway.
I imagine me in your hotel room.
Fending off your loneliness and pain.
I see me kissing you.
Touching you,
in ways that only a lonely hotel room can accommodate.
The silence waits for you,
to make or break it.
While I wait for you to make or break me.
Loving you. Wanting you.
In your lonely old hotel room.