Hotel rooms.
People coming in.
People going out.
Nothing permanent but the furniture and the king james.
Lock on the door, deadbolt chains.
Something foreign trying its best to feel familiar like that aunt you never knew kissing you on the cheek.
Its nice to know you’re loved but you doubt the sincerity.
And while your gone the towels are exchanged.
Sheets washed and changed.
The clothes you threw across the floor now hang neatly by the door
and you could get used to this.
Like a tiny army that follows behind and cleans all your messes.
Washes your clothes, irons your dresses.
But then it ends.
You turn over your key and have to leave.
And you get home and toss your clothes around
but when you return they still lay on the ground.
No pillows fluffed and pressed.
No shower complete with tiny shampoo and conditioner, fully dressed.
No, you’re home.
Home where nothing is just as permanent.
People coming in.
People going out
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