Hotel California

He makes promises

that are well kept and groomed

and I don’t forget about them

awarding him with credibility;

closing my eyes to any negativity

about him.

Nothing is definite,

but still very, very likely;

he is a safe bet to call on.

He is definitely older,

in looks,

in mind,

in stature.

It captures me,

the way he hands his card

to the hotel clerk like he’s done this before

(I am so sure that he has).

Yes, it captures me,

along with his safe eyes,

safe voice,

strong arms,

vicious lips.

With California sand still in his scalp,

pure thirst in his eyes,

he is too smart,

too old,

too cold to be reached,

too accustomed to beer,

not accustomed to, “Love you.”

The bed is creaky,

like the elevator,

and they’d hold the same amount of people

if you’d let them.

He’s got greedy hands,

needy hips,

vicious, vicious lips.

No more questionable glances in our room

that paint us with nerves like,

“I’m too young for you,”

and “take her home immediately.”

It’s dark when we walk in,

and like we found each other,

we find the light switch

and drink everything in.

The sky is grey today

making the unfamiliar view appealing,

only because it’s just that unappealing.

(Really, there isn’t a view,

unless you count parking lots

speckled with rental cars.)

I feel fingers at my throat as I look out,

he’s already set his bags down,

and I have not brought anything.

He put the sign on the door,

Do not disturb

(I am already disturbed).

Though we’ve hardly shared a word,

he gives me kisses,

his kisses turn to bites,

and the game is to lose the fight.

Though I don’t even want to win,

I still play.

His greedy hands

make their demands,

and I begin re-dressing him with my eyes.

He doesn’t ask

and I don’t tell

if I’m okay or not.

I’m tired of forgiving,

but I’m so tired and forgiving of him.