I find post breakup ache inside the closing seaside hotel. I ask the question I kept postponing.

I see you inside the closing seaside hotel before I prepare my face.

I notice salt damp linen clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a brass room key before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need the room to stop remembering.

I stay as the guest book shows a room you reserved for two.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the drained pool instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of post breakup ache.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a brass room key beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that you left but your habits stayed.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the drained pool with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside the closing seaside hotel, but you left but your habits stayed.