for days when your heart may warm at hearing my voice from a faraway place

Dear cigarettes, 

You are small and white and you burn my throat. I don't love you anymore, but I'm staying with you. 

You never lied to me; it says right on the pack, "Cigarettes are a heartbreaker."

When he's there, talking about quiting because she's a non-smoker, I am a smoker. 

I'm a smoker because she's not and because you're here. 

I'm the yellow fingers and the ashtray lips and I can always put you in my mouth. 

I'm the raisin-smell of a new pack and I'm wrinkled foil with one stick bouncing around. 

I think maybe once I was inhaled and exhaled again, and if I were you, I'd be between his fingers and pressed to his lips.

But, he's decided to quit, and he's leaving you at home and trying not to think about you. She is chewing gum, she is celery, she is tiny sips of cold water. She is his tapping fingers, she is respite, she is anything but that. She is taste and she is smell and she is deep, easy breaths. 

Still, I'll keep you around. We'll stay together for the spite, together long after he's gone. I'll light you, I'll light you up, and we'll make our own smoke.