Pressed Violet, Room 412

The air conditioner hummed its low,

flat prayer. Another city, another bed

I’d never truly learn or know,

my thoughts a tangle in my head.

I found the drawer, the Gideon book,

its black cover worn, pages thin.

Just something to unnerve, to look

for quiet company within.

And there it was, Ecclesiastes Three,

a pressed violet, almost dust,

a purple ghost, a fragile plea

from someone else, a shared distrust

of empty spaces. A slight brown stain

where life had once been held so tight.

A secret left, surviving sun and rain,

a quiet sign, in the hotel's pale light.