Hotel Rooms

They never felt this lonely before, the granite tops and french doors don't seem to matter. 20, now. Double down comforter and fuck the song that just started playing. You think you can forget, you act like you don't care anymore. But it's lie to ourselves Friday, again. I sleep on the left side of the bed, partly because sleeping is more comfortable on my left side and partly because maybe one day, when I'm being pulled closer in bed it'll actually mean something more than nothing. There is a man I once would have called jesus had he let me, and God I hope I never love someone like that again. You realize now that all the things he ever told you were just like all the other particles in the world. Transparent and practically useless because they weren't your own. Why did I learn so late that nothing belongs to me. My heart. My soul. My thoughts. They all seem like mine, but they're all just compilations of people and places and secrets and particles. I've felt nothing but raw lately. There's been a chasm of lack that I can't get through, and I want to bring myself through it- but the absence of inspiration is so vast. I haven't lied or been the omissive self I crave to be. I haven't been the naiive idealist I once was. I don't need a purpose to live, the desire for a point just proves the monstrosity of existence, but I could really use some motivation to feel again. It's not apathy, it's not that low, because I want to feel. You begin to wonder if the things you've done have finally caught up to you, if the things you refused to feel are prowling towards you and this is the calm before the storm. There are things I don't want to let down, there are rooms in my heart that I don't want to enter, there are shadows I've refused to acknowledge that are hiding under the bed. There's someone now, someone new, someone with whom I connect. Not in the young, cliche way either. Sure there are stars we stare at around 4 in the morning and there are walks we take in crisp air, but there''s an intimacy I've only had once before and this time it seems truer- though I'd have claimed that impossible two augusts ago. Time. How could have 7 months already passed. How did I go so long without recognizing the gaping hole inside me. Am I that empty? Not empty in the sense that I have nothing to give, because I have so much I need to give. Empty in the sense that I have no fear. No fear of oblivion of heartbreak of fear itself. And that should be the scariest thing there is. I've stopped making plans, because how silly was I before to think that I'd get that far. I've stopped kissing, because how silly was I before to think that being kissed makes you lovable. I've stopped painting, because how silly was I before to think that making art makes you beautiful. There's something I cannot recognize, and I think it is myself.