I remember that you liked smoking. Whenever I hear the lighter flicker, you'd be there. Cupping one hand around the paper stuck in your mouth. I tend to associate the smell and sound of cigarettes set ablaze with you. A week ago I tried to smoke for the first time, even though I hated it when we were together. But I miss you. And the smell of nicotine reminds me of you.

I remember that you tend to drink when you're upset. Your words turn to slurs, your eyes glisten, bloodshot. You said you'd rather drink to numb the pain than face your conflicts head on. I used to worry about you. Especially when you're driving alone late at night but you'd always get home safely. I don't have the stomach for it but four days ago I deliberately got myself drunk so I could numb my pain too. Like you.

One by one, a few days at a time, I'd think back on your bad habits and try them out. To see and feel what you felt when you did them. I'm thinking, maybe if I inhale just a little bit longer, drink just a little bit more, I could see what you have seen---that made you pack your bags and left me two weeks ago. All those precaution I took when I was with you are lost. Like throwing a pebble into the sea. Now your bad habits are mine.

-m.b