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The typescript of my memoirs


In the bin were dental tape and condom wrappers,
a handful of hair squeezed from a brush. Despite
water shortage notices we left every towel damp;
I cracked the spines of all the Good Hotel Guides
so they fell open on the ones I liked; you struck
the complimentary matches, shredded ‘local interest’
leaflets and rolled the pieces into roaches. These are not
the things that matter, yet they’re the only other
traces of our stay in a room where you loved me
so much my back left a smear on the mirror.