From The Ramada
I wake up alone at the Ramada,
Tangled up in ripped sheets with the TV on,
And the phantom echo of your voice
Haunting me ever since you left me for New York.
I’ve been here before—
With bitten lips and a silent ache,
Somewhere in between my left ribs,
January clung to my hair and bones,
Walking down blood-carpeted corridors.
In this yellow, windowless room,
Days bleed together,
Months run and fall,
Seasons bloom and rot,
It rains and it pours.
And now that the candles of a sky
I once wished upon are blown,
I am left with nothing
But poetry and a song.