I Wish I Smoked Cigarettes

That feeling of rolling over in bed and finding a lighter first thing in the morning.

In a hammock in a summer backyard.

Cruising down a highway with all the windows down.

On that long ski lift back to the top, one glove removed.

At a streetside cafe with a book or a pen and a cuppa joseph.

Having a single sitting behind your ear as you work, waiting for that delicious break.

Nothing is better than leaning up against something and smoking. Or sitting backwards in a chair, hands draped over the top holding a cigarette. Smoking turns loitering into still life.

Watching the clouds of smoke rise from your mouth, like a sexy dragon or greasy rock star.

The only bad time for a cigarette is when you’re in the womb.

The weight of an antique Ronson, the smell of Zippo fluid or match sulfur, the fresh jones of an unlit cigarette, so many things about smoking are just lovely and beautiful, like old friends.

Friends that make me wheeze in stairwells and turn my teeth yellow. The same friends that get me hookers, heroin, and amphetamines, land me in the hoosegow and blow the bail money, the same friends that shave down my life expectancy, and most definitely the same friends whom I can’t play with anymore.

Damn.

Though the elegant sophisitication cannot be argued when one enjoys the smooth taste of premium tobacco that’s blended with the finest of morning loogies and rich in brown fingernails.

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