I loved you until the morning; our kisses were warm and deep, drifting mist-like over dewy, crumpled sheets as we fused on the second-floor of a railway hotel. The room’s ingrained bouquet of liquor and desperation haunted our love-making until, hours later, the sun’s waking light sliced through threadbare drapes, outlining our shadows against the wall. You’d never stay past dawn. But this morning, you hesitated before untangling yourself from my embrace, lingering as your fingers traced my curves; exploring the topography of the time we’d stolen.

“You’re leaving today,” I said. Challenging, not questioning, in a controlled voice; one that concealed my innermost fears. My fingers felt numb as they wandered over your back, tracking your spine. The backbone you lacked; confirmed by the mattress sagging under the weight of the goodbyes I knew you’d rehearsed.

You murmured something, more to yourself than to me, a lie curdling in the stale air before it reached me. I knew the routine — soon your clothes would reek of someone else’s scent.

The doorknob felt cool in my hand as you left, stepping past me out into the hallway. “Wait,” you directed, turning toward me, planting a finger securely against my lips, imprisoning my last words. “Just… remember,” said as you pressed a last kiss to my forehead, tasting the saltiness of evaporated passion, before hurrying down the corridor, disappearing into the lift, the way you always did.

The room felt hollow without you, while outside, a departing train whistled as it headed somewhere fresh. I imagined you boarding a carriage, having left the echo of your mouth on mine. The poetry of a love seeded in the fault lines of someone else’s life.

By noon, as I exited the hotel, the sun felt like a blade cutting deep into a wounded heart.