chicago

This is how I won't remember us:  

You smoking a cigar in Chicago  

And me burning at both ends  

Of a candle that never depletes.  

Or you yelling Google searches  

Into your phone in public  

While I smile at strangers  

Looking at us.  

Or you disappointed in a hotel again  

For not living up to a place  

You stayed in the '80s  

And me unsure if it’s  

Your memory or the decade  

To blame. Or it’s you,  

On the first day, frustrated  

That it didn't live up to what you built  

In your head. And me knowing  

On the second day, you'll be tired  

And sick. Somehow, 

I will forget all these details,  

Only remember how, for a few days,  

We got away. We were together.

I will talk about that for a couple of years

to anyone who will listen.