Marked Page

On the edge of the cheap motel bed, I sit,

shadows lingering like the words that stung—

a drawer yawns open, splintered and worn,

where the same marked page waits, a quiet defense,

its faded ink heavy with echoes, each crease a scar.

Dust motes dance in the beam of light,

as if the room holds its breath,

and I sift through what remains—

one last chance to grasp what was said,

a moment turned sharp, cut into the silence,

feeling the weight settle in.

The night presses against me,

the hum of regret a haunting song,

a cacophony hiding in the frayed fabric,

sweet memories turn bitter at the seams—

yet, I read the words again, alone in this hush,

and wonder if it’s all the same,

if love, in the end, simply bruises like that.

What do I do with a heart undone,

when a fight feels like breaking?

What can it tell me now,

in the space between breaths, caught in the dark?

A pause, then a sigh, but the past still lingers,

like shadows here, in this motel room.