I hate that you smoke.

It’s more than the health effects. The pictures of blackened lungs, the rotting gums and teeth, the long-term deterioration of the body. Sure, I hate those things, and I worry about your health—but it’s more than that.

I hate that a chemical has such a strong grasp of control over you.

I hate that I can tell when you are starting to have a craving, and I feel myself resent the attention turning away from me. I hate when we are out, and you leave me alone to hold the table while you get to stand outside in the fresh summer air. I hate that when you come back inside, I can look at you and see that you are filled with renewed energy and relief.

I hate that this isn’t because of me.

I hate when I can see you through the window laughing with your friends over a cloud of smoke, and I am isolated inside, waiting, alone. I hate that I am jealous that they share this habit with you. I hate that I am jealous of all the laughs and conversations that happen during these smoke breaks.

I hate that I have grown to love the smell, to be comforted by it. On your breath, stuck to your clothes, lingering in your car when you pick me up.

I hate that when I walk by a group of smokers on the street, and exhale deeply, I miss you.

I hate you may never crave me the way I crave you,
the way you crave a cigarette.