My heart knows it is wrong, but I cannot bear to lose you. Knowing that you will no longer touch my lips, darkens me. You have always been there. Watching the waves crash from Ocean to shore, dancing under the giddy lights with me. I breathed life with you but you made me suffer. I shivered in the cold for you, sought your company even when I was sick , fouled myself with your poison. You took advantage of me when I was drunk, I even lied to my loved ones for you. You threatened to kill me but wouldn't tell me when. Luring me day after day into an uncertain future Despite all this I miss you every moment,minute and hour. You caught me young and now there is nothing to compare to you. Our dirty little affair has come to an end.
I've given up smoking. Again. When a four year old berates you in the street, when you are shamed as a smoker at the school gates by your son's friends, it's time to face facts. It's not just about me anymore. I never smoked during pregnancy , it seems that giving up for me is linked to someone else. I could never give up for myself, my pop psychology puts the blame at the door of catholism. Oh who am I kidding, I just love a good old fag.
Sad perhaps, but I simply loved smoking. It gave me time out, helped me breath, relieved the loneliness of an evening. It's not true love however, it's an addiction. I will never fully relax around smoke, my brain is different to those who have never puffed a cancer stick It always will be. My first post natal cigarette in the front garden was bliss. I slipped back in an instant, the surrender was divine.Without the cigarettes there will always be something missing. Russell Brand hit the nail on the head when he described addiction as punctuation mark. Without a cigarette , i need to learn to pause differently.
So yes, I will miss you, there will always be something missing. But hopefully not one of my limbs, a lung or me altogether. It's an unattractive smelly, business. Not glamourous, big or clever. But in memory of the good times I dedicate this picture to smoking. When I was young enough to think that wrinkles and cancer were elsewhere and that a fag in hand could still look hot.
In the meantime I will be punctuating my evening with a bag of Twiglets.