Lobby of Shadows

The carpet…

Human with footsteps that never linger long,

 just echoes of intentions half-formed and fading.

A velvet chair…

Slouches in the corner,

 its cushions tired from listening to stories told in glances,

 in sighs,

 in the shuffle of overnight bags.

The chandelier…

 Flickers,

 not from power loss,

 but indecision,

 unsure whether to illuminate hope or resignation.

A bellhop…

 dreams in stillness,

 his posture a monument to waiting.

The Bar,,,

Down the hallway spills jazz into the air,

 notes curling like smoke around conversations that never quite arrive.

Books…

Line the faux shelves,

 spines stiff with silence,

 pages untouched,

 a library of unread lives.

This is the lobby of shadows,

a prelude,

 a postscript,

 a place where arrivals and departures wear the same expression.

Some enter with maps folded tight,

 others leave with nothing but the weight of their own shadow.

Outside…

The rain rehearses its monologue against the glass,

 while inside,

 time forgets its name.

A man…

In a coat too heavy for spring

 stares at the revolving door

 as if it might spin him into a version of himself he once believed in.

And still,

 the doors swing open,

 close,

 open again,

like a heartbeat that refuses to stop.