We fly high to find the lost.
Outside, the last bits of clouds.
Illusions of faces and places.
No breathing spaces left.
I wear a dress out of the suitcase.
He buys us time at the Grand Millennium.
Behind the brass hotel door
with others in identical rooms
we unpack two hearts
we forgot we had
and let them bleed their weight
down the sliced floors.
I watch him gasping for air.
He watches me too.
Poem
Hotel Room Nightmare
Jelena Dinic