42nd Floor

Nobody noticed us.

Until I opened our door and all they saw were immoral gestures.
Boxes and boxes filled of motions captured.
Polaroids of mistakes and mistresses.
Glossed eyes, she came from Pairs.

Until they saw the piles of curves and cigarettes.
Russian roulette, secrets and eye-lash alphabets.

Champagne, wasted. Drugs, tasted.
Our lips chapped, heavily painted.

The smoke of movements and voices over powered
the next three rooms over.
Along with the moans from the shower
of the pretty ladies with their crimson clovers.

Our gala of tangle legs and wet hearts.
There were seven of us and we were all pleased.

Our display of naked skin in fine art.
Minds eased, painted ceilings and goosebumps teased.
We were there for 4 night falls.
42 floors tall.
In a hotel with our closest bliss.

These memories, oh they hiss.
It seemed to be like yesterday,
Doesn’t it?

poem: Ali Crider photos: Mike Lerner