the blue bird inside

his time is nearly
up.
he lights a cigarette and takes
a deep drag,
letting it
soak into his rotted lungs.
I did it to myself
he says,
flicking the ashes against
the steps.
all of it.
he coughs, then spits
out some blood,
it's crimson against
the thin patch of white snow.
you'll miss me when
i'm gone, won't you,
he says,
his hard blue eyes crystalline
with tears.
probably, I tell him.
probably.
he smiles and nods.
I ain't so bad, he says.
there's blue bird in me
that I hardly let anyone see,
but I think you know that,
don't you?
yes. I know that, I tell
him.