"Hey [reddish brown square] you want a cigarette?" He asked me.

"No, thanks" I answered.

"Oh, you don't smoke yet?" There was a smug smile on his face.

"Not ever," I said just as confident.

He was right.

I started to smoke you when I was 20 and feeling extra-rebellious.

You probably killed my grandma, earlier than she would have died without you to coat her lungs in tar.

I wanted to quit using you to fill in some minutes of my time, a year after I started using you.

It's been three years now.

You're one of the only constants in my life.

You fucker.

I love you, though.

I'm a devoted soul, I guess.


(overused movie reference alert!)




I wish I knew how to quit you.