my favourite times

It is hard for me to simply comprehend
and yet not say it. It is a hard thing not to say.

That was another time perhaps,
I can never be sure. A blue sweater cool
in the fading green light.

I rarely dressed to kill. Losing my hair
I was so debonair and skeletal. These
were my favourite times with you
when I'd disgraced myself beyond
all good or ill.

September through November,
you said my breath smelt disgusting.
Those first few moments learning  to hate
you line by line in a world that
had suddenly made itself
ridiculous. Without rage.
Was this your final word to me?

Or was that later still, your bed once.
Glimpsed through
a doorway. Abundant with pillows.