fingers to lips, I press tightly
Eyes close restfully
Inhaling deeply
familiar routine
missing something.

What I breathe
is not dirtied with soot
only frigid air
turned hot steam
near the back of my throat.

I miss the sensation,
Though not the flavor
And this partial craving
Is far easier to stave away
Far easier to keep nostalgia at bay.

1.15.2017