i feel doomed in hotel rooms

i'm sitting on the bed, 

legs feeling itchy under the scratchy sheets, 

and hand is holding the battered tv remote, 

mindlessly scrolling through all of the channels. 

i'm waiting for you. 

but you don't know that. 

i already know that you're exploring the city 

with your own curious eyes, 

tracing every window and light on the buildings, 

the skyscrapers that tower over you. 

and i know that you feel immensely small, 

that you will stop counting once you realize 

the cold, biting wind

and the loneliness you feel at your side

even though bustling strangers are pushing at you 

and murmuring for occupying the middle of the sidewalk.

i don't know why we always argue 

when we go anywhere but home. 

it's like we aren't meant for change. 

together. 

i settle on a news channel, 

my feet draw circles at the end of the bed under the quilted blanket, 

and i stick my hand underneath the pillow beside me, 

wishing for a weight to crush my hand

and a warm body to hug

because the air conditioning feels overwhelmingly chilly now. 

and the creaky air going through the dusty vents

turns to creepy white noise

we argued over that too. 

i know you're at a random diner, 

when you could be at any fancy restaurant you want

in the big, big city that we always wished to visit, 

sticking your fries in your vanilla milkshake with two cherries, 

because you would always want to get a cherry for me. 

in that small town where the cook would 

automatically place two cherries anyway when 

she would see us walk in.

i hate that we can't change together. 

i hate that we made it big and yet, 

we can't continue without feeling like we don't belong. 

i feel doomed in hotel rooms, 

every single hotel we stay at, 

traveling through every single city, 

and all the jetlag is making my brain fuzz 

like one of those sodas at the vending machines

near our apartment that always burst up into the air like the ashes of a volcano that we saw in Hawaii

when you open it, 

but when i do, 

it sizzles for a bit and then fades back in the drink. 

i hate that 

we fell apart 

the more miles we traveled. 

i hate that we can't go back to the simplier times

when we made music in our rusty garage, 

and would store our instruments in your closet. 

and we would be together. 

but we wanted to change. 

so we did. 

but not together. 

and as i slip under the covers

pretending to be asleep when you come into our hotel room at 1 am

and get into bed with me, 

i realize that change always come with a price, 

and we both unwillingly signed a contract for fame

in exchange 

for us. 

and that's okay. 

because once the contract ends. 

hopefully, we'll find each other again.