Mini Post: Ode

I love the crackle of the cellophane as I remove the outer wrapper, and the crinkle of the aluminum coated paper as I give it a slight tug, pulling the hood off and revealing twenty perfect blonde soldiers standing at attention.

I love rolling it between my fingers just before I bring fire to the tip and breathe in the smooth smoke.

On a Sunday morning, crossword puzzle and coffee on the table, pen in one hand, smoke in the other. In the car, wisps of smoke curling out from between my lips as I sing along to the radio. Outside my office, worrying the ashes off against the side of an ashtray as I share coffee and gossip with my friends.

We call it “a smoke”, but you can’t hold smoke, it’s ephemeral. And this too must end.
I’m quitting smoking.