It’s mostly shampoos and soaps and remnants of hopes left to crumble to dust in the hotel room.
The person’s gone they’ve traveled on to glory,
to a new story, to the psych ward or a place with more gloom
Letters to know one
Notes that will never be read
From a soul living a whisper from dead in her paragraph
These are what I find in the motel room
And sometimes my heart starts to break and my fingers will shake and I wash my hands over and over
I say a quick prayer for the traveler and hope they find a raveler to stitch them together as a rover
It’s a night it’s a bed it’s a place for their head, four walls to trap their dreams
But each time I come after they’ve gone and the room shouts and announces it’s void from the neon signs dim beam.
Homeless in LA © 