Smoke

I hate the smell of cigarette smoke.

It lingers like the stubborn scent of dirt after a rainstorm,

And the persistent puddles in earths pores

Leaving evidence

That the earth has wept.

Even after it’s stopped, there’s no escaping it.

Just like the smell of your cigarette smoke.

But unlike the rain,

On your smoke,

I choke.

The steam from that cancer stick

Does not evoke

The same sense of comfort as the rain

That soaks

me.

When the rain is long gone,

No traces left,

I long for the scent,

And the sight of my breath,

That reminds me of your cigarette smoke.

I used to hate the smell of cigarette smoke.

The way it clings to my clothes like

Flame on fire.

One encounter with it is a match you can’t un-burn.

But there’s magic in the fire because it brings warmth, and moves authentically despite its impermanence.

Unlike the absence of your cigarette smoke.

I miss the smell of cigarette smoke.

Like a neon sign that’s been permanently unplugged.

What was once a reminder of its presence,

Has turned into a beacon of its disappearance .

Now, when I see trickles of smoke from a chimney,

Or my exhalation when it’s cold outside,

I simply pretend

Its the lingering scent of the

Cigarette smoke that I love and long for.