I have been telling myself that I should write about you. Describe intricate details of how you make me feel. Made me feel. There are nights I sit up for hours trying to find the perfect words to depict you, mold you into a story, but you keep evading my mind and your form eludes me.
You keep ebbing away into the corners of my mind that are vacant and an echo of your name is all I’ve got to show.
You cannot mold beings from ashes.
I keep telling my fingers not to flare into a flame as I make origami selves of your being but they never listen. They keep lighting flames every time my nerves whisper your name and I cannot stop the fire. Smoke creates images of your face that I so desperately want to keep yet they keep dissipating and I am left chasing the wind.
I wish you were here.
I have been hazy-eyed watching bits of me look for your scent in my closet. My eyes fixed on this small screen hoping it lights up with your name sometime.
It never does.
I love you
I loved you. I still do.
There are days I forget you. On such days I go on my business happy until I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke then all the bits of me that I had once glued together so neatly start falling apart. The thing about addictions is that they remind you of people who initiated you into them, flinging open doors of memories that you had tucked away in the dusty parts of your heart.
I had stopped smoking. I tried to stay clean for at least a month but my darn lips yearned for a touch from you, a memory, and I found myself at the shop getting a pack. Our shopkeeper gives me a judgy look every time I ask for a cigarette and I wish she would have met you. Maybe then she would understand my longing for you.
The smoke no longer chokes me. I smoke at my window overlooking the children field as I watch them play. The children laughter drives me nuts at these times. I think the universe feels the empty space in me and is laughing at me.
I have been missing you like crazy.
I should write about you but my fingers are so burnt by cigarette filters that I can barely hold a pen without flickers of pain and I find myself writing cliché poems wincing every time the word love crosses my mind. I mean to write about your lips, how sexy you look when you curl them, your crooked finger nails and the scar under your right eye that breaks the monotony that is the smoothness of your skin but instead find myself scribbling about the splendor of the moon and shit. I once started writing a poem about you and ended up with a religious poem and all I wished for was you as my alter that I would kneel on and give my all.
I wish you were here.
I should write about you, and then maybe I will stop smoking.