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Each of the flowers between us
Became a misunderstanding.
The chocolates no longer inspired
Ruby tinged memories, but
Comforted, placated sorrow.

The movies on screen weren’t
Half as tragic as their audience.
The back row of that theatre was
All seats, not even the whisper
Of a lover’s tongue to fill them.

The table at the restaurant might have
Fancied itself a boxing ring, upscale
Pugilists for the dissatisfaction
Of anyone else foolish enough
To dine there tonight.

The bed had accomplished
What the Soviet’s never could
There was a wall down the middle
More resilient than Berlin.

The lamp was the only one left
To bring a meek glow to the world.
After it retired, we certainly
Didn’t have the rosy cheeks to
Attract even the most addled of moths.