I reach for the neon green box of my cigarettes and place a stick between my lips. The sweet taste of fresh tobacco fills my mouth, and flick a flame between my fingers which were once tangled between yours. I know this ritual all too well.
Gently I waste the first puffs of paper until I take my first long drag. My lungs fill with the earthy flavors of the burning leaves and the rush takes a hold of me the way you used to hold my heart. If I told myself I wasn’t addicted to you it would be a lie. I stare into the flame and release my breath. Letting go of you is like smoking a cigarette.
The smoke spews from my lips like all of the words I can never say. The glowing cherry burning closer to the ends of my bare fingertips, imprinting the ghost of my haunted past into my naked eye. The sacred geometry of the smoke as it twirls off of the end of my cigarette is a reminder of the spiraling darkness of our relationship as I blaze my way through the blistering levels of purgatory that we once called heaven. I can light the whole town with the gleaming fire of our perfect life going up in smoke. Like a Phoenix from the ashes, still again I always rise.
Our love is like holding a match until we get burned, intense and so bright yet quickly fading when we reach the end.