The Hotel Room.

The stain is still there,
From the deep red wine you so casually spilt-
Sloppy, or was it planned?
It sunk in deep, dying the fibers with its severe color:
The only proof left of our existence.
The carpet lies as a monument,
Muted tones now complimented by that mysterious Zinfandel;
Stoic and permanent.
The wallpaper of that timeless room was dull,
Covered with the usual oversized paisley flowers in androgynous colors.
The polished mahogany of the desk and nightstand,
Where your notebooks lay in disarray.
A single couch, a loveseat really, stood proudly by the window.
Waiting for two to grace it with their presence-
It still waits.
The city lights shown brightly through the half-closed curtains,
Each glint appeared as an answer in the darkness-
If only we had known the questions.
Your suitcase proved worthless,
Overflowing and over packed.
Your clothes made themselves at home on the floor,
Lingering expectantly in the corner by the door.
Sheets spread carelessly on the bed,
The color quickly forgotten as my eyes slowly lose focus,
And your hand moves down my neck.