In the Travelodge Blyth A1(M)
Through the crack in the curtain,
the morning light hits the bedside lampshade,
as if it were lit from within.
And you, you are bathed in its golden hues,
still asleep.
I woke to a panic of bank accounts, unplanned
overdraft fees, a text from your mother, and
a need to pee.
The walls thin, the motor traffic stands in
for our Sunday Morning Love Songs,
the janitor's keys in the hallway
the sleep button on the alarm.
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