Sometimes I Miss Smoking

I miss being cold. Miss losing feeling in my fingertips. Miss seeing my breath coming out from myself and dancing across the yard. I miss knowing lighter tricks, and match tricks, and knowing how to catch a spark in even the darkest times. I miss being that person. Maybe it’s getting older that makes you less exciting. Makes you less igniting. Makes you less than. I miss the huddle, miss the camaraderie. Miss the “must get around so and so or no one will smoke and that means everyone will want to DIE.” Miss the circle of people gathered together to block the wind and catch a light. Miss the messy magic of it all. I miss pulling one out from behind my ear when need be. Miss the half smile from people who never expected that from me. Miss the smell of it staining my sheets when he’d come in after midnight. Miss the old milk bottle next to my front door, holding all of the remnants and all of our secrets. Most of all, I think I miss the me time. Miss the seconds between inhale, drag, exhale when everything would just stop. Where I could look up at the constellations. Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Orion. Where I could pause and contemplate my own existence without needing a five-year plan. See, I miss smoking. But not because I miss the way shake would end up at the bottom of my bag or the way my hair was always reeking of Camel, and Virginia, and Marlboro (oh my). I miss smoking because it’s one more inch I can close between who I am now, and who I used to be. Because I think I’m losing her. In the sunset I ignore. In the clothes I get rid of. In the wine I pass on. In the smoke rings that dissipate. Eventually, she’ll be just a memory. And I think what I’m scared to admit is, I’m scared that I will be too.