Motel

By Sophie van Llewyn

They never stay more than one night.

What remains are scattered hairs from unkempt beards, balding skulls, greasy moustaches, sweaty armpits.

What remains are tyre tracks from their wandering trucks, once splendid sport cars, the station wagons which still smell of milk and wet dogs. Melted in the heat, carving the courtyard like so many notches.

What remains are odors from their drugstore perfumes, silent farts, tobacco, cheap spirits. Stale seed.

What remains, making the air quiver with their heaviness, are their insults: tramp, harlot, trollop.

I am a motel for the flesh.

I am what remains. But I never happened.