I quit smoking.

A lot like I quit you a few days back.

I still remember the day you
held my fingers and slipped one of your
king-sizes between them; lighted it
as I watched you
in awe. You asked me to
breathe it in. In
silent acquiescence
I closed my eyes and
felt the cool air crawl down my
throat into my lungs;
charging my nerves like you did.
Days after you left, the same
breath didn’t seem so nice anymore.
I remember how you taught me
the interplay of light and shadow
with my fingers, and watched me
with affectionate pride
as I killed myself slowly with
every whiff.
That night as we lay in my bed,
our naked bodies intertwined, you
taught me how to
blow rings of smoke.
I smiled, my lips
and finger tips stained
with bits of you and the nicotine.
I tried so hard to let myself
be sullied by your vices.
Maybe then you would
have loved me. Maybe
a little more.

Days after you left
I still used to puff out
smoke rings like prayers,
ardently waiting for you to
follow the traces of nicotine that
wafted in the air and
come back to me.
You never did,
so I snubbed my last cigarette
into the ash tray
and swore to not crave for it
again. I don’t crave for it
anymore.

I don’t crave for you either.