it’s been three months now, and i miss smoking so much.
i was in love with smoking for as long as i can remember. everyone tried to tell me smoking was bad, bad news but i just wouldn’t listen! if loving smoking was wrong, i didn’t wanna be right.
smoking made me feel immortal. the rebellious romantic, the tortured artist, sexy, mysterious—smoking had it all. or so it seemed. smoking stayed up with me all those late nights when i couldn’t sleep. smoking understood when i didn’t want to talk to people at parties. one glass of wine, and smoking was fantastic. when i was bored or mad or stressed out, smoking calmed me right down.
i felt restless without smoking by my side. sometimes i didn’t even want to go places where smoking wasn’t allowed. they just didn’t understand. to know smoking was to love smoking. and people who loved smoking always had something to talk about. huddled together on sidewalks, under heat lamps, on balconies, rain or shine. hell, smoking was worth it. because smoking permeated my mind, my body, my clothes…
but it was all a lie. smoking never cared about me. i needed smoking, but smoking didn’t need me. smoking was slowly killing me inside.
i still think about smoking all the time. i probably always will. it still hurts me when i see smoking with other people. (they look like they’re having such a good time…) nothing can take the place of smoking. sometimes i’ll smell something or hear a song that reminds me of smoking and i try to convince myself that smoking isn't all that bad. but when i went back to smoking those three times after we split up, it just didn’t feel the same.
so it’s truly over. and even though i feel empty inside (and i don’t really know what to do with my hands), smoking can’t cloud my eyes over with smoke anymore.