The drab gray with the corduroy collar. You left the cuffs unfastened, the red flannel lining cold. A pack of smokes in your pocket, a book of matches in the other. A cigarette hole on the sleeve. You said you would quit. You’d try. You never did. You liked to watch the embers burn, the ashes flick cool, as do yours, cast vast across the snow.
“I write like there is no tomorrow, getting the words down, leaving perhaps, a bit of my past on the page.” – the writer