Two: Of Crisp White Sheets. And Wine.

The movie they saw, the rolling credits
reflected upon, the flickering light playing games
of catch me if you can, on their now
empty wine glasses, waiting to make their way
back. Like the inevitable end, their love affair too
had to fizzle, wishful holidays, dreamscapes often
short-lived. The glass refilled, the wine swirled in the glass,
breathing, livening its soul, more alive than them. Even
it cannot resurrect what was always dead. Perhaps incorrect,
what never got a chance to come alive. Beginning and end. As
it usually is when expiration dates have been set.
And intoxicated passion dictates drunken love.
Its proof in the crisp cold of white sheets.
As only hotels cloaked in anonymity can be. The history starched
clean and the creases waiting to be marked again. The ashtray
waiting to be stories told, the walls swearing to eternal secrecy.
At that anonymous time, place and a hotel, two worlds separated
by unmoving walls concrete, connected by only
crisp white sheets in each.