Goddamn it, I miss my cigarettes.
I miss the light up,
the first inhale…
I miss ‘em like my worst best girl friend,
you tell everything to
who cheers you on
in your darkness.
The kind you call when you’re shitfaced
because you lost the part you were born for,
who holds your hair back
while the room spins and you wretch at the toilet.
The kind who takes your favorite suede jacket from the ‘70’s
the tobacco brown one with fringe on the sleeves,
and then spills red wine or some fucking shit on it,
like she could replace it in a minute
with a cheap crap knock-off from Target.
Ya, she’s the cat who leaps up on your newborn’s chest,
lays there quiet for a while, then steals his breath
while you’re making cookies in the kitchen.
The kind who fucks your husband when you’re out of town,
then borrows your brand new panties
before she leaves through the front door in broad daylight.
She feels good,
in a comfortable kind of way,
if for no other reason
than you’ve known her,
held her there between your fingers and inhaled her,
your whole life.
And even though she does all this awful shit to you,
she’ll always be your friend.
She’ll even make your bed for you,
so you can lie in it.