Smoke

When I finish the cigarette I’m done. She’s left and I need to let go.

I flick open the lighter, a gift from the last girl that tried to fill the spot she left so brilliantly and obviously open in my life. I stare at the flame as it dances with the wind, so connected to every slight breath uttered by it’s partner. A gust hits and the flame expires, so I relight it and bring it to my face, cupping my hands around it to protect it from her partner.

Breathe deep; that first breath fills my lungs with the beautiful poison, like her, a slow killer that I love.

“Not everything’s a metaphor,” she once quoted to me, “some things just are.” But I can’t help it, everything I see connects to her; the ash that falls to the ground like the beautiful and the painful memories, to be swept away into some invisible form and ultimately forgotten. The smoke will leave scars on my lungs, the details of each interaction will fade. But it, like the scars she left, will remain.

The paper slowly burns, until there is nothing left of the Eagle emblazoned on the side. I know I have only moments left. I try to slow time, I grab every second, holding on to it for all I am, and have ever been, worth. But there is no fighting it, every bit of relief I get from each inhalation causes time to shrink. Every time I see her, I know it’s one step closer to her never being there again.

Only the smallest bit remains, each breath burns my lips as the smoke passes through the filter. Oh please don’t let this end. I must go on, but don’t let it end. My fingers feel the heat of the smoldering ash at the end of my cigarette, but still they cling on, willing the facts not to be true. But they are, and holding on only hurts more.

I let it drop.

The ash scars the pavement where it landed, a obvious mark, one that will stand out for a while but, in the end, will wash away with the storm and the wind brewing overhead. I step on it, finally extinguishing it.

It’s done. Gone.

I walk away.