a stranger points to a smoke sign and asks if i smoke; i say no now that stranger is a friend and my no is a sometimes and i wonder if it was a warning when he said that smoking was bad.
had i known, i would have answered the anxiety is worse and the cancer can't really **** me when i already feel dead inside. instead, i waved him off with a laugh that meant "i know. isn't it obvious?"
the rot caught up to me two years later, outside the same bar where i'd pestered another friend into putting down a box. it was a betrayal then, when i brought the sick to my lips and inhaled the poison. it was a betrayal again when he found out.
i tried to appease the scolding, argue that i've stopped smoking. would it be a betrayal now to say "i still think of rot and decay"?
she held the cigarette between her index finger as if she was pointing towards her next foreseeable victim, but shortly it was blown out, the remaining ashes lit at the end of her tip. her cardamom eyes simmered, square but foundational, a million could love her.
another excerpt from a story I am writing. what do you think?
i've been waking up to desaturation all my life. i don't know why but i've been rolling over in the same grey-skinned body, opening shoddy eyes, heart heavy as a hangover. i climb into your chevy with it in my hands. i know this is the fifth time i've lit a cigarette since i quit, but my lungs needed the ash. did you know, in a car crash, just one person not wearing a seatbelt would worsen the casualties? so if you see the casual ease with which i bare my chest, know that the carnage of my reckless form, hail in a storm of steel and violence, at least felt sorry. the starry dark of a backroad, an explosion of light, a bright metal supernova and colors even my eyes can't doubt; we'll all find out exactly how heavy my guilt is when the body sorrow built ascends through the windshield.
cigarette ashes fly on the wind, as i stare at my black coffee, it gazes back at me. black sobranie, and i debate; of all the people, i find it hard to see is there something worth seeking. just like dust, i let them go i never looked back let them think i'm bore. you may be a world unseen, yet i am so tired no words flow well enough. i'll just go lose myself in paint and doubt while i stare at my coffee, and flit around.
She spoke with half-smoked cigarettes and lilting cursive scribbled over last night’s letter’s return address, her bags packed with only a backless dress. Nails dripping black and red blood and paint indistinguishable in the darkness of the winding alleyways zigzagging her heart. She was truly, unendingly lost in the mazes of her mind as she traveled backwards with a string lazily trailing after broken stilettos. Yesterday’s rain still dripping from empty window sills and illuminated by lanterns lit with fireflies found solace in her silent tears for they were companions, cut from the same paper-thin cloth. Maybe a goddess had worn it once, but those days were long gone when she lit it aflame with a cigarette fresh from her lips. Desire was never a question — this she had learned from the fire overtaking her overflowing mind — and yet it was soundlessly spoken on empty bottles not yet broken and swept up by the sea. Only the blind man could see her now just as the deaf girl heard her cries and thus she remained unanswered. This, however, she did not mind for being lost was no longer not a choice.
3/21/2021 She had passed the exit of the maze, and yet she did not hesitate to continue on just as she had done the hundred times before.
If I had to name three things I couldn't live without, I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction, per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers offer them to me, your wordless expression showing concern and contentess. I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later, thinking I’ll make some coffee again today. For both of us like I usually do. Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?
My toes are suddenly cold I dip them in these tender aqua waters, juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity that laces my cup. I can't tell if you resting your arms around my waist brings a fire within me or if it gives me chills. I start swaying to some synonymous tune that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment, even though the only music is the wind whistling through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.
My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained. The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.
So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow. I wouldn't want to live without it.
she was your wife she misses you she doesn't want to just be the smoke from your lungs escaping into the winter air but what i fear is that im the cigarette that you bring to your lips then toss out the window when you're finished.