the neon lobby is never just a waiting room.
it is a confession booth with a velvet rope,
a beautifully lit panic attack,
a hallway pretending it didn’t just map your pulse.

the carpet already knows your alibi.
the mirror by the elevator has memorized every variation of your fake smile.
the vending machine glows like a desperate oracle
for people who think a flashing light is a sign from the universe.

i appreciate a room that admits absolutely nothing
and still somehow leans in to whisper,
babe, i saw everything.

so tonight, the lobby politely classifies me as a pretty problem.
i stepped through the revolving glass carrying a halo with teeth.
by the time the elevator doors sighed open,
i was already leaving with applause under my skin.