I opened my purse when I got back to Toronto and basically the only memoir I had of my trip to Boston was a pack of Camels. Which I only bought because they’re pretty much the only American cigarette brand I know well enough. A simple poem about how much I love that city.
A guilty cigarette
From a black and pink box
They’re too long and they’re not my style
But I got it from a city where I belong
But a city where I don’t live
So the bus ride sweat
Seeps into my head
And makes me miss what I will never have
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