I got this big jacket at the 99 cent store.
It smells just like home, which means it smells like you
and your favorite brand of smokes.
It’s dark blue with bleach stains and soot;
reminds me of how the sun would light up your eyes,
right before it set.
I never wear it out because you never lived in this city,
and that’s hard enough.
But I always put it on right before bed, when I need you the most.
I zip it up real tight and lay on the floor,
while light plays on the ceiling,
and wish for warmth.
I keep the last thing you ever gave me
in the left breast pocket: an old ticket stub,
from our 7th date.
You told me it was lucky once,
but I never got to test it out.
I only wish I had it the day you left.
When I talk about home,
I never mean the cold apartment I can’t afford anymore.
I always mean the jacket,
all rugged and smoked out;
a perfect blue,
a warm enough home.
But never quite as warm