ROOM 601

She met them all,

over a glass of wine,

with eyes that locked

but never truly saw.

They smiled—seductive, hollow,

dragging each other into lust,

behind doors that never knew love.

They kissed, passionately,

or maybe they didn’t.

Perhaps just lips colliding,

knowing it would be the first,

and the last.

The ritual never ceased—

new faces, same hunger,

same locked doors,

in different hotels.

Flesh met flesh,

marks were left behind—

not love bites,

but frustration etched in skin.

Maybe it was survival.

Maybe she was trapped.

Maybe she didn’t know

what she was searching for—

until that night,

until him,

until Room 601.

Rain poured like whispered confessions

when he entered,

but he didn’t pull her close.

Didn’t claim.

Didn’t demand.

Instead, his voice, soft as dusk,

“May I?”

And in that moment,

for the first time,

she felt like more than a body.

Their hands met,

not in greed,

but in permission.

Their lips touched,

not in haste,

but in wonder.

That night, she learned

what it meant to be wanted,

not just taken.

He returned, again and again,

not to consume,

but to know.

Between silken sheets,

they spoke of childhood dreams,

of wounds too deep for fingers to trace.

She told him of streets that named her,

of nights that swallowed her whole.

He told her of love he lost,

of loneliness he carried.

Night after night,

he came,

but never stayed.

And then—

he didn’t come at all.

She waited.

Like the sky waits to meet the earth,

like the tide waits to kiss the shore.

The key never turned,

Room 601 stayed empty,

his name a silent ache in her throat.

She still walks past the door,

still lingers at dusk,

hoping—

for another knock,

for another “May I?”

for him.