The blue-and-brown of the hotel room
echoes the shades of my wardrobe,
and I laugh inside.
I am neither as old as the room
nor as bland as the beige-patterned carpet,
but I like the friendliness
of comfortable colors.
In them, I do a disappearing act,
and strangers look past me, through me,
an invisible writer scribbling down their words,
preserving their appearance like leaves
pressed between the pages of a book.