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The polyester spread is cold and electric,

clinging to my jeans as I sit on the edge.

The air conditioner is a dying lung in the wall,

rattling out a rhythm of stale, filtered dust.

I pull the laminate drawer and it groans,

revealing the book with the gold-stamped spine.

There it is again, the corner folded down,

a sharp, triangular ear on a page about fire.

My thumb finds the smudge on the onion-skin paper,

a greasy mark left by someone who was here before,

maybe losing the same fight I just lost in the car,

staring at the same black ink until it stopped making sense.