The curtains are the color of a bruised plum,
smelling of old cigarettes and damp wool.
You wore a perfume that promised a garden
but delivered a sterile waiting room.
We shared a cold slice of pizza
on a mattress that remembered a different war.
I loved the way you chewed your lip,
like a dog with a piece of stubborn gristle.
It was almost beautiful,
until the radiator started to scream.