I stayed at the hotel where you forgot me. Room 212, same rusty key. The window’s cracked, it lets in air— Not enough light, too much despair. The coffee’s weak, served far too soon. The silence hums a different tune. Your name’s not listed at the desk, But it lingers here, grotesque. In tiles that sweat along the sink, In drawers that dented when you'd think I meant too little, spoke too slow. You threw your ring. I watched it go. The town’s unchanged, still three dim lights, Still baking bread and lonely nights. Still benches by the water’s bend Where once we sat, and tried to mend. You laughed like love was something soft— I almost caught it. Then you coughed. I said I’d come. You said “then do.” I meant it late. I meant it true. They say time heals, but it forgets The way your hair would leave regrets— The shape your pillow used to keep, The sound of almost-falling sleep. They say you left. You found him kind. A little early, less inclined To ask for more than you could give. I hope he lets you fully live. I hope he leaves no poems behind— Just dishes done and peace of mind. I stayed one night. I didn’t cry. The bed remembered. So did I. I told the walls that I was wrong. They held their breath. I stayed too long. And when I left, I left it slow— One last look, then down below The sign still flickers, soft and red: “Vacancy.” Like something said, But never meant And never read.