Cold Hotel Room

It’s not even about sex. It’s about companionship, friendship, trust, honesty, loyalty, understanding, affection, love. It’s about waking up tangled up in each other every day–an intimacy that never grows old or too mushy. It’s the little things, simple and mundane–hot black tea with a lump of sugar in the morning, bacon with sunny side up. It’s having the freedom to talk about anything without the need to censor yourself–books and music, films and TV shows, dreams and goals, the state of the nation, words and endearments made for each other’s ears only. It’s basking in a comfortable, secure, and peaceful silence that never becomes awkward. It’s about doing your absolute best to have all the trouble sorted out before going to bed. It’s knowing intuitively when to push and when to wait it out. It’s knowing exactly how and where and when to touch the other even with your eyes closed. It’s about being content in each other’s company in the present and looking forward to a shared future. It’s knowing that you are needed and wanted and still be free. It’s needing and wanting the other and still possessing yourself. It’s being there for each other through all the storms and calmy seas. It’s making space for each other’s brilliance and holding–accepting each other no matter what.

I believe in all these things, but now I don’t know why I wrote this and why my mind is spinning so furiously to spit all these thoughts out. Maybe cold hotel rooms just make you long for the warmth of another. Sinking into the paradise of fluffy pillows and downy white sheets so soft and luxurious, I could not think of anything else. Except when I’m dead tired after the day’s excursions and exertions–my head hits the pillow and I’m off to an uninterrupted stretch of dreamless sleep until my cell phone alarm crows like a rooster, heralding another new day in a foreign place.

c. July 8, 2013
York Hotel
Mount Elizabeth, Singapore

Photo by: Lea Vergara Apilado (Gardens by the Bay, 2013)

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