Cigarettes

My fingertips burn.
It's a constant ache when I'm with you.
I've held this cigarette for far too long
lost in the thought of you.
I started this habit
so long ago.
I bought this pack last week
and already it's half empty.
I've smoked one a month, maybe two in one
if I was feeling anxious enough.
You make me anxious.
I only ever take a few shallow drags
because the thought of inhaling the tar
and the carcinogens
and the addictive nicotine
scares me.
I'm hooked on enough already.
I have enough self destructive tendencies
to last me a lifetime.
So I light up and sit, waiting until it burns out.
It's a waste of six dollars and forty five cents, really.
I don't even know why I bother.
The lingering smell reminds me
of what I do
and why I do it.
I savor it.
And I'm afraid you can smell it all over me.
I'm afraid you can see my burnt fingers,
and the ash under my nails
that I try so hard to hide
but fail to do so when I'm so close to you.
It's a difficult habit to conceal.
I'd love to quit. I really would.
But the thought of quitting reminds me of why I started:
you.
And the thought of quitting you
terrifies me.