I told my mom that I quit smoking on that rainy Tuesday afternoon after the hurricane hit because every store seemed to be out of that little white carton with red on the top. I told my sister I stopped during senior year because I was drowning in papers and would rather drink away my sorrows with beer. I told my grandpa I didn’t need any money for cigarettes because I quit after grandma died last July; I made a promise to her I’d find more natural highs. I told my neighbor he didn’t have to worry about the butts in the drive way any more because I swore to you I’d keep all my secrets hidden behind closed doors. I told my nephew I quit because someone wouldn’t buy my old couch because it smelled too much like smoke I thought they were kidding, but it wasn’t like one of your silly jokes. I told that old school teacher I ran into outside the super market that I didn’t need a light because I quit smoking in an attempt to lead a healthier life without living in fright. I’m not saying I lied when I told everyone in this small town I quit, but the truth is I’m craving more than just one last measly little hit. Sitting alone in the room we once shared, I take one last inhale, letting the nicotine fill my lungs before throwing the **** to the floor, I can’t stand the smoke, but the faint smell is as close as I can get to you anymore.