Smoke

I had a cigarette for the first time

because a boy asked me to.

If it was any boy, I would’ve

pushed him away and scoffed.

But this was the boy.

“So do you want a drag?”

He had lit up as we walked around at night.

We would take long walks like this occasionally.

As he lit his smoke, the lighter

briefly illuminated his face

obscured by shaggy hair and shadows.

He handed me the cigarette.

I paused, PSA and after-school specials

blaring in my head.

But his eyes

and his eager smile,

I took it, placed it between my lips

and inhaled

I expected coughing, wheezing,

a cloud of smoke spewing from my hacked breaths

But none of that happen, I barely felt anything.

So I took a deeper drag,

letting the smoke linger in my lungs

before letting the cloud go.

The warmth of it felt good and the smile

he gave me as he got closer burned

I would be addicted to them, have nights filled

with gold packs, cheap lighters, trembling fingers from the cold

and the overwhelming emotion.

Take a drag, breathing slows down.

1 cigarette, 3, 5, half a pack

I would also be addicted to him as well,

playing video games until 2am, dropping hints at each other,

any way we could touch each other.

Finally confessions, first kiss, steaming his mother’s car windows,

feeling for each other in the dark, falling asleep in each other’s arms,

crying, ignoring, makeups, makeup sex, bliss, happiness, ignorance,

affection, anger, love, the possibility of a future with him and

one without.