it's a bad habit of mine, to write about bad habits.
| I thought he'd die right then and there the way he smoked like that. He would inhale deeply and carefully; letting the smoke slowly burn his throat. At night it would light up his face and I could see the disappointment in his eyes as he watched me. I never said anything about how I hated the smell, or how I hated the way the smoke would sit in the air, dark and heavy. I just watched him exchange oxygen for poison, one cigarette after another, for as long as they would burn. We both knew he loved the promise of death more than the promise of forever. The days after he left were disorienting. I found it nearly impossible to breathe. That's when I realized what all those nights together had done to me. But I knew what I needed. It's been three years and every morning I wake up to kiss death deeply and carefully, finding a promise of escape. I hope I'll die one day smoking like this.