Its slender shape and recessed filter--
More familiar than roses,
Yet the power of red-infatuation, exotic appeal,
Was contained in its tiny silver tip,
Picking it up and putting it down, again and again,
This was the last.
I was never supposed to have any of it.
The air tasted more suitable in its absence.
Only torturing my lips became so addictive.
The smoke had its path, circling around me as if to make fun--
“You can’t quit me” usually proceeded putting it out
And lighting another.
I must answer differently this time.
I puffed away, smiling, and finished
And placed the slender flaming object upright
On a balcony ledge. I left it there.
I remembered it much later.
It was still there, illusively less familiar,
Almost unappealing, and dead.
Apparently, it went out on its own, and so did I.
by Michelle Nicole Murphy
ps.... 10 years later and still smoking. This time the Mantra will help. This is it!
