He is my cigarette. He's the cigarette itself not just one, but the whole population of it; the whole thing, each one there was or will exist. He wasn't just another "cigarette break" he wasn't going to get used, thrown and stepped on. He was going to keep coming. Day after day, time over time, inhaling him to the point where he sticks to me and becomes apart of me. Just like a box of cigarettes, at that time, I thought I needed him, but then again maybe I didn't, maybe he was what I would prefer to call an obligation. Or maybe it was just an excuse to keep him around, to have him constantly when in reality it was just me, wanting him so badly. It seemed like he was that what I was crying out for. Essential. Like when you're on the verge of breaking down at 3 in the morning, and you're desperate for it. You're desperate for him.
It didn't matter what he could've done
or how it would've affected you
what matters was each inhalation
that never seemed to have an end to.
As if you could've kept him forever. As if he agrees on staying.
-riri-
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