After paying for my black and mild I made my way across the street to a bench to have my smoke, The pavement boiling in the hot sun. Descending the steps to the bench I brought out my old lighter, battered and worn with scratches and etchings of the past, I set it onto the bench and began a ritual that I should have long forgotten, gripping the cigarette with thumb and ring finger I tapped the lighting end seven times, just like she used to. A simple act, place the cigarette to my lips and light it, something that gave me an unusual amount of trouble this time. The wind blew out my lighter, the humidity strangled the cigarette, and my own breathing seemed to deprive the flaming stick of tobacco of the oxygen it needed to stay alive. These simple
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The first puff was the always the best, before the heat and smoke burned out the taste buds. My first puff of her was the day before I turned 17, there existed no ash or tar just the spark of a lighter, and the spark of her laughter against the crisp night air. For a while I sat there, on that bench, and I looked at the shadows cast by the tree branches, the clear sky and the sunlight as it danced through the leaves on the tree and weaved through the smoke hanging in the air. Taking everything in I wondered why I quit smoking in the first place, was it the smell? The yellow teeth? The shortened lifespan? None of those reasons held true, and as I sat there I realized I never wanted to quit smoking, I wanted to quit thinking about her, I wanted to quit her. Only after her leaving did I become cognizant of the hole she filled in my life. Substituting One addiction for another. Never moving on, just trying to …show more content…
She could easily walk past me on my way to class, or to exit a stop before me on the campus connector. She might ask for a light as she took a cigarette break. But none of these things will happen, as a result of her having moved on, dealt with her emotions head on. She’s as close as she’s been in a year, but just as far as she’s ever been. She’s everywhere on campus, and impossible to find, like the smoke that hangs in the air. Running from my problems is what truly got me hooked on nicotine, so I suppose I should stop running, and confront things head on like she did. The last few puffs of the cigarette don’t have the same flavor as the first drag. Just ash in my lungs and smoke in the air. The same way she left, the only traces she leaves are scars in my lungs without the smoke to keep me comfort. With the cigarette almost burnt out I checked the time and realized I had 15 minutes until my next class, so I tapped the lighting end seven times, put it out on the bench, and began to make my way to pre-Calc. Smoke in my lungs, only to dissipate at the next
The first puff was the always the best, before the heat and smoke burned out the taste buds. My first puff of her was the day before I turned 17, there existed no ash or tar just the spark of a lighter, and the spark of her laughter against the crisp night air. For a while I sat there, on that bench, and I looked at the shadows cast by the tree branches, the clear sky and the sunlight as it danced through the leaves on the tree and weaved through the smoke hanging in the air. Taking everything in I wondered why I quit smoking in the first place, was it the smell? The yellow teeth? The shortened lifespan? None of those reasons held true, and as I sat there I realized I never wanted to quit smoking, I wanted to quit thinking about her, I wanted to quit her. Only after her leaving did I become cognizant of the hole she filled in my life. Substituting One addiction for another. Never moving on, just trying to …show more content…
She could easily walk past me on my way to class, or to exit a stop before me on the campus connector. She might ask for a light as she took a cigarette break. But none of these things will happen, as a result of her having moved on, dealt with her emotions head on. She’s as close as she’s been in a year, but just as far as she’s ever been. She’s everywhere on campus, and impossible to find, like the smoke that hangs in the air. Running from my problems is what truly got me hooked on nicotine, so I suppose I should stop running, and confront things head on like she did. The last few puffs of the cigarette don’t have the same flavor as the first drag. Just ash in my lungs and smoke in the air. The same way she left, the only traces she leaves are scars in my lungs without the smoke to keep me comfort. With the cigarette almost burnt out I checked the time and realized I had 15 minutes until my next class, so I tapped the lighting end seven times, put it out on the bench, and began to make my way to pre-Calc. Smoke in my lungs, only to dissipate at the next