Nineteen The motel room

Nineteen. The motel room

smelled of stale smoke,

a cheap spray covering it up.

My hands, knotted,

white knuckles

in the dim, yellow light.

I asked for a sign,

a bolt, a sudden knowing.

The mini-fridge hummed.

Dust motes spun, slow

in the thin sunbeam

from a gap in the curtain.

That was all.

Just the hum. The dust.

Nothing.

I waited for God

and got quiet.

And walked out.

And somehow,

that empty space

was the only thing

that didn't break me.