Familiar Patterns

Sitting here, the silence grips like a vice,

a cheap motel room, memories still flare,

a drawer creaks open, an uninvited slice,

as if it knows the burden I bear.

Faded ink on that page, words blurred and worn,

like the feelings we shared, now tangled and torn,

it echoes our voices, each line a retreat,

haunting this bed where our hearts used to meet.