Fragments

  I had missed smoking. I had missed it so fucking much. I just did. So when I had the opportunity to smoke once again, I took it and chain-smoked about six cigarets one after the other. The ridiculous thing is that I've never actually smoked, just a cigaret here and there, in between months. Yet every day my fingers ache for it and I bring them to my face as if they're holding an invisible cigar. And I don't even like the stuff. I kept drinking vodka and wine to wash off the taste.

  And it felt... good in a peculiar way. As if my worries were being burned away. Turned into ashes and smoke. As if I were, or at least the parts of me that I prefer to ignore, were turned into ashes. But when I left and afterwards returned to the empty apartment I realised that our faults, like our memories and everything that makes us up, may be momentarily burned, but the stale smell that covers everything afterwards and hangs in the inside of your nostrils, in your lungs, is evidence of what has exactly happened.
  And only you can change something you don't like.

  I pressed my back against the wall and locked the door and then went to my bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I didn't wake up until my phone rung the following morning. I slept in the arms of an invisible lover - I really do wish there was someone. I'm not interested in anyone at the moment and though I'm content, I'm also lonely. I wish I had someone to keep warm with under the covers.

I'll try to never smoke again.