Maybe, if I write for long enough,
it will become beautiful. Maybe I’ll impress you,
and the words will
stain your eyes and ears
like injections of colour.
Maybe, like fragments of light,
it will refract and
split into a rainbow with
every area of contact.
Maybe if I’m with you long enough
your warmth will spread to me –
reach these cold hands that can produce
nothing spectacular so far,
just a spot of passion here and there.
Maybe those points of contact will
linger to form something more.
A friendship, a romance.
Maybe, they’ll defy the laws parallel lines
must abide by; living side-by-side
without ever touching.
Maybe I’ll write something meaningful,
and together
we’ll break the law and create
an area of contact; just for a moment,
our lines intertwining.

The first time I smoked a cigarette
I felt the exhilaration of putting it to my lips
Sharp inhalation followed by sputtering coughs
Barely managing to pull in an even breath
Followed by a head rush
My stomach tied in knots and I questioned whether or not I would be sick
But I persisted, and choked it down

Eventually I got used to the taste
I grew to rely on the way my world would stop
My head swam, and time slowed down
My anxious mind was eased, if only for a moment
I craved it more than oxygen

I knew that it would be the death of me
Yet I couldn't walk away
I spent money I didn't have, just to get one more taste
I lost who I was to what I thought I needed

Such was loving you

Time went on and it strangled me
I felt like I could hardly breath

There is no nicotine patch for loneliness
And the nights of missing you still make me shake
But loving you was smoking

**So I quit