The silence of an empty motel room is no silence for anyone. It reverbs in the ears with the passing of each car. The neighboring air conditioner hums through the walls like a deep-chested lullaby. Robotic, but varying in frequency. A single column of light seeps in through a slit between the curtain and wall. Footsteps above.
No poetry to be found in the pressed flesh tonight. Heavy breathing staccatic. Satisfaction in groans. Briefly overcome with buyer’s remorse. Come on, sleep.
These porcupine towels leave skin raked.
Contemplate the tendons that form the crest of the female inner thigh. Study their movement during maneuvers. Search for the termination point midway down the thigh. As with all grace on Earth, the tendons are an illusory mechanism. There is no path. And yet, there they are. A trail to follow.