Surely you do not think of me as often as I think of you. Truth is it’s just too hard to walk away. Cold turkey loss. I smoke like a chimney. Every cigarette tastes like you. You don’t invade my sleep my nights are without dreams but I might wish for it if I didn’t think I’d wake crying my addiction bleeding anew. Music your voice blurred and twisted but strong as fuck flows over the internet. Oh my lord. I recall your voice haunting “I’m not ready for this sort of thing.” Well neither was I. I put a picture up on the wall a cigarette jutting out of your mouth a smile roguish (I’ve never had occasion or the urge to use that word before but it’s right it is) and it delivers a little emotive cut every time I look at it. Grief has that effect. Don’t laugh. Months without my taking advantage of my own body’s vulnerability to me and the rolling inevitability of one goodbye sees nails set to old scars and despair is made manifest for the first time in an eternity of waiting. Your voice husky and low putting that particular touch to my favorite song. Only you could do this to me I laugh at myself as I sit here crying. I laugh until I forget that it started differently.