What if I had decided to meet her at that hotel, pretending then,
a honeymoon couple, and all the smug faces of the staff who knew what we came
there for, and what we intended to do, once we gave the bellboy his tip and
locked the door.
I dwell on that moment as if it was true, as if we had married
rather than mated, as if we made our own vows, banging the bed posts against the
wall for all that part of the posh place to hear.
I imagine how it really must have been with that other person
on the overheated July, painting a face (among all the possible faces I might
imagine had made the trip with her) with my face instead, poised over her, kissed
a prelude to what really happened, none of which she revealed in the empty
photos she later posted on social media, as if she had made love to a ghost.
I always point in my face in the place of that man’s face,
thinking of how it must have felt over her, under her, on either side, banging
the bed posts so hard as to leave indentations in those walls, no need for a
weeding ring or reception, just this act in that place that I keep dreaming
about, even when I am far from it, aching all the more the nearer I get.
No comments:
Post a Comment