I cannot feel my pulse under the skin

and my breathing

at times too erratic, too shallow,

unkempt

and barely noticeable, only captured in the smoked over

glass as the whisper of exhalation or in the stagnated

overthrow of winter’s icy breath

that makes me want to remember images

of my childhood with a chocolate cigarette, two fingers

up to the corner of my mouth as if I

was recreating a scene

from a film noir

and I was the gumshoe solving

my own imminent demise.