The Drawer

Back at the same motel again.

Same room. Same cheap bedspread

that smells like other people's skin and pain.

We fought the whole drive. Always do instead

of talking. I pull open the drawer

expecting nothing, and there it is—

the page, folded as before,

exactly. Two years ago. My crisis

is still here: the highlighted passage,

my handwriting in the margin: a date.

The date I thought things would change. Message

from my past self: the delicate state

of hope. The page is still promising.

Still a lie. My hands shake.

I could throw it away. Stop reminiscing.

But I fold it back the way I'd make

it stay, exactly as it was,

and close the drawer. Same room.

Same fight. Same pause.

Same drawer waiting for the next gloom

to bring us back. And we will come.

We always do.