I taped my heart to the radiator
with a strip of grey, industrial grit.
It held for a week, smelling of adhesive and wet dog,
until the heat turned it into a gummy, black syrup.
The landlord came by to check the leaks
and found a dead moth glued to the baseboard,
frozen in a scream of silver foil and dust.
He looked at me with eyes like two boiled potatoes.
I told him it was a temporary installation.
He just sighed, smelling of cheap menthols,
as my heart slid slowly down the wallpaper
like a slice of raw ham in a July rain.