<i>Hello.</i>
The revolving door
clipped your heel and
you stumbled.
<i>Where have you been?</i>
Lace, cherry, and smoke—
<i>What have you seen?</i>

Silence marred your face,
so slow, so broken.
<i>Paris, of course. My clichéd
palace.</i>
Your letters were still tucked
beneath our—my bed,
but I borrowed your silence.

A glance toward your left:
a ring.
Your eyes followed mine,
your hand retreated
as I pursued.

So worn the map of your palm,
once soothed by naivety,
the sparkle of palaces.
<i>Not now, Peter.</i>
You took back your hand.

You made for the desk,
requested a key,
left for the suite.

I made for the desk,
requested a key
and a new room.