Smoke

A cigarette right now would be delicious. There's an especially gnarled knot midway down my back, center-right, that pleads for it. I can almost feel the black air filling my lungs. They expand to accept the mixed blessing of the inhalation. Blood vessels dilating, even my eyes seem to relax as the rush warms over me. I feel like passing out or perhaps flying away. Little cylinder jammed between my fingers. Aura of smoke cocoons me. I lean. And then I take another drag.

And then another until I finish it, throw it on the ground, and think about when I can have another cigarette. At times, I've actually thought about the next cigarette while I'm still smoking one.

Films. Strangers on the street. Friends. Old pictures of me. All demand of me why I don't smoke anymore. By their own love of the things. By their disbelief that I, of all people, have quit.

Oh, Jesus, would I love to start again. I long to.

But I wouldn't die for one. Not now. That's the point.

And this moment of agony will pass as have the countless others I've endured since I quit months ago.