I smell cigarettes on my fingertips
as though it’s touched my lips
and I have been smoking,
the cigarette burning between my fingers.
I remember how the smell lingered
in my clothes and my hair.
The cigarette then burned out,
and the smoke dissipated.
Then so did my despair.
Cigarettes no longer burn now,
and the lighter nowhere to be found.
You’re the only one still around.
You care for me and support me
like the smoke that soothed my worries.
Please, could you be the one candle
that brightens up my path
and with the sweetest scent
that mend my broken heart?
Just me writing about cigarettes which I quit about seven years ago. Yet I never forget how they smell.
It’s funny how it smells, sometimes I can’t stand, sometimes I long
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