hotel rooms

i earnestly forget what sunlight on skin feels like on mornings i wake up bleeding on 100% cotton hotel bed sheets. there's a certain kind of motion i go through during these situations to avoid shifting through the motions of post-coital satisfaction, like opening the curtains as slowly as the night began, running a bath and examining any changes in my body, calling up the bellman for tea, and blindly searching for a thing, there's always a thing that fell under the bed, no matter how meticulous i had tried to be.

i never sleep beside you but my sleep always takes me to you.

with love and squalor

there's a little balcony outside our apartment where our clothes hang out to dry in the night, and where i hide out and let thoughts of him permeate all over. i've been content with living in squalor, even though most of the time i'm looking for his fingers, all i find are 10¢ stuck on my hair (luck!)

i wrote to him during chinese new year when i felt particularly disconnected from most things because the entire city was empty for 5 days and i roamed the streets, only to find sparkling water as the only remaining form of decadence available.

through the window, i can see my neighbours playing with fire crackers downstairs. our apartment is all white and filled with the sound of a tiger when you try to shear their fur. i am always without your presence.

 

not at home

i've officially moved from my home town to a city of commuters. this is where people move constantly and seamlessly into the night as if they were made of lights.

i've developed a new habit of breakfast in the kiosk underneath my apartment, where there are always $1 cigarettes, tea, and blackbirds tittering on the pavement. the hardest part of living alone would be taking out the trash and washing stains on the sink with a bar of soap that i have actually reserved for my skin.

everyone thinks my life is charming but i don't think sleeping with the gentle, sad sound of the washing machine on is.