How mythic, idealized—bellhops guiding golden
luggage carts, each of the Erotes chiseled into lobby
molding. All the framed landscapes to get lost in.
Here, there are so many rooms full of brief living. What else
to do but live out my fantasy: our bodies as impossible
to check out of. I can’t help but consider all the ways
this could end. Lying in bed, I hold you like I am
a filament—need quick lighting. Instead, you fold the stiff white
sheet over the down comforter as if we were home.
My side is resistant; seems not to care to be folded
just so. You reach over me, tuck it into the nape
of my armpit & kiss me goodnight. In the morning
I recount sculpting Himeros, winged god of no
distinct myth, in my sleep. Leaving early, I strap
my leather tote bag to my back—walk out
into daylight & rush hour traffic. Leaving early,