Another day
and somehow
we have made it
back to the room.

Carry-bags
and smelly underclothing
float to the ground
all over the city.

You sprinkle
cold water
on your face.

Rubbing itchy palms,
I sink into a chair.

We begin to say something
about today's happenings.
Our sentences
stay unfinished,
those incidents
forever incomplete.

The shadow
of all that remains undone
and unobserved
lingers between us.

Between mouthfuls,
while channel surfing,
I enquire distractedly
about the backache you had
two days ago.
You nod and continue to eat.

Letters have to be answered -
at least today.
In our own ways
we try to create
images of succour
in our minds.
The faces crumble unformed.

Our days
yearn
to subside into early sleep,
unfurl into early awakenings.

We embrace.
Just heat,
no warmth
in our flesh.
We turn away, tired,
back to our
dry papery bodies.

Here's
no loneliness
no fear
no emptiness.

Just exhaustion.