"Cigarettes"

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Addicted to the addict..

Submitted: December 24, 2011

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Submitted: December 24, 2011

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I'm not supposed to miss you. That's the feeling I got, when I hung up the phone two nights ago. Imagine me crying over a loss I felt so many months ago, just last night. Doesn't make sense to you, I know. Isn't it odd how I get this feeling of needing to explain myself to you? Laying here, confused in the bed that I know you shared with me last year, and trying so hard to distinguish your perfume from mine. Its just been too long, and all of you is gone.. drowned out by my own pungent fragrance. No need in searching, but my mind won't listen to me as I rationalize the situation.

You didn't love me. That we both know. A fabrication, you allowed me, so that I could have a moment in the sun. And, god damn, it was one glorious fucking moment, wasn't it? Its those memories that I try to embellish, at night. I manipulate them, and twist the details, until I'm holding you and kissing your frame. I know the exact flavor of our love, in those moments. And, no matter how artificial, I'm drawn in to it's addictive nature. Licking my lips, breathing in the stale yellow stains, I brush the tears away.

The man at the liquor store eyes me up and down as I tell him what I'm searching for, and why. He's already offered to help me drown in the copper colored sea, and no matter how many times I tell my head it isn't you, it won't be the same, I smell the perfume of reds on him, and know he'll do for my game of pretend. Not nearly Casanova, but he's got enough going for him when he promises to cover the liquor if I agree. What's there to agree to?

I watch him as he stubs out a third Marlboro, not surprised at finding the expression on my lips devilish. A smirk, no less, as if I'm waiting for one of your episodes to flank his personality, and rage at me, threatening me with the exact retort I want. But, you are not him. He is certainly no you. No you. Heh, funny how that was the birthing of this situation. Blame you? Never. How can you be blamed, how convenient that is for you, when you are not here to even push me away? Still, that smirk remains as his nicotine and copper tainted breath overtakes my lungs, his lips raping mine.

My first cigarette. Now, that's a lie. I don't even cough. No headache, no nausea, not even a spell of dizziness, but it's the first cancer stick brought to these lips. Falling in love with the addict, I suppose, robbed me of my virginity when it came to slow, cancerous suicide. Mayhaps, my body found the same poisons resting against your skin, for a sponge would have never slid across that flesh if my tongue hadn't been it's first caress. Addicted to the addict... maybe therein lies the problem. You were my cigarette. A one time high, for there are no pre-packaged, pre-exposed to the world, egotistical pre-jaded mother fucker's out there, just like you. None to subdue my need, none to wash away every ache that I hide.

Snores. Leave it to man to pass out when you want his warmth against your backside. Nestling my body against the corpse, yes, he's still breathing, who has sedated my needs for tonight, I close my eyes. His arm limply hanging, half wrapped, about my thinning figure, I pretend the tears aren't staining my checks, as sleep comes to claim it's prize. And, dreams come penetrate a pride, a weakness that not even I can camouflage, or heal, despite the tries. Waking in the morning, the man behind me will likely be gone, I will shower and prepare for another empty day. All the while, I'll go on searching for someone who can remind me how to forget you, and move on with life, anew.

Until then, the cigarettes will burn low, and the liquors will flow

 


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