I book a room in the same motel
I’ve booked year in and year out
For decades, though now, I recall
That one night, that one year
When I lay down listening
To the bed in the room next door
Pounding against the wall
And the loud moans of lovers
One of whom I dreamed
Back then was her,
Wondering as I drifted
In and out of sleep,
In and out of dream,
What sounds she might make
And so I make them up
Myself, shaping her
In my mind
As the woman whose moaning
Oozes through the thin walls
And aggravates what I already feel,
I book the room again
All this time later,
Thinking, what if it really was her
(though I know it wasn’t)
And still sometimes dream
As if it was
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