Cigarettes in Chicago

Cigarettes in Chicago by Jeremy Heuslein the Blood, pooling

in my mouth, tastes

like the last cigarette

we shared in Chicago

that winter.

hot lungs and cold faces.

It spills out like that smoke,

our breath,

wrapping around flushed cheeks.

then, I see gray eyes change into blue-

clear-winter-sky

and now, brown turn into gray.

i could say i'm Sorry.

I could.

I'm Sorry.

I never should have left

dearborne and kinzie, and

all the old haunts, where

our cigarette smoke still

lingers and sticks to brick,

where you pressed your back,

and held me and spoke and

loved me, many sidewalks ago.

i got lost in another city, somewhere

between fairbanks and ivanhoe,

out of cigarettes and plans.

and dying, dying is taking the Orange line,

out past roosevelt to cicero,

flying from Midway.