The air was sucked out of the room
and followed you down the hotel hallway.

I was stuck in the bed,
the sheets used and wrinkled.
My head was beating hard
and the lower half of my body
completely wasted.

I felt sick
because I kept asking your name
and you refused to say it.
“Call me Daina.”
I fucking knew better.
You had read the matchbox
on the end table:
“Daina’s Den”.

You rode me like a Jeep Wrangler,
as if you had something on your mind.
I felt like a dust storm
you tried to navigate through.
I wanted to ask you what your dad’s name was.
I figured it was simple and American.
Like Bill, or Joe.

Your fists banged the walls
each time I thrusted back
into you.
It was as if you
were getting even with the world.
Our bodies slid in and out
of each other,
all sloppy and necessary.
Your hair would drag across my chest
like curtains across a carpeted floor.

There’s a piece of hotel stationary
on the mundane ebony desk
with initials and a number.
If you’re ever in town, it said,
give me a call.

There in bed, post coital,
I couldn’t feel my feet.
My heart was a million miles away
where I leave it
when I open the door a crack
for the strangers to sneak in.

01/27/2016

Posted on 01/28/2016
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