The city began its daily routine
of relaxing its grasp from her pores
as she waited for nightfall.

Waited for the same midnight oil
that used to saturate her lungs.
It's been six years yet she still misses
that last cigarette.

The final one that symbolized
her declaration to quit;
its unrecognizable imprint
still turned her on.

It didn’t matter that she could no longer
abide the smell and stink of it
— she wanted it.

She missed swaying haphazardly beneath bar lamps,
heaven pouring into the small space between her lips;
touching and tasting the silver strings with her tongue;
letting the feeling gently press into her lungs;
making them full and satisfyingly heavy.

It didn't matter that she had fished out
the half-used butt from an overused ash tray
at the dark end of the bar.

It was filth and dirt that felt pure and perfect.
She wasn’t smoking, she was breathing live air;
crisp and intentional.

It was the one public flaw that made her feel whole;
and as she eked out that last drag,
she knew she would be left to deal with
the personal flaws that offered nothing.
It was six freaking years ago
and she still couldn't stand herself.

It was the best alternative;
the perfect stretch-marked surrogate for someone
in the middle of losing thirty five percent of their soul.

07/14/2011

Author's Note: Probably not the best topic for someone in the middle of missing it

Posted on 07/14/2011
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