The Hotel Corridor's Bend

The green enamel cup rests on the marble dresser. I walk down the corridor, the curve dropping the floor level by half a step. A brass key warms my palm, radiating heat deep into the bone. Above the seam of the carpet, a small cloud presses against the plaster, its edges defined and stationary. I know a book of poems is left in room 312. The weight of the things I forgot settles on my chest. The air smells of lemon polish and ozone. Someone just stood here; the tile floor feels warm under my heel. The cloud shifts, releasing a single bead of clear water that hits the floor. The water does not spread.