On quiet, cloudy days I breathe clean, still air and
I remember smoking cigarettes.

The last pack cost me $4.28.
They were Parliament Lights,
barely cigarettes, but boldly so by default definition.

I tapped the top against my palm
to pack the tobbacco tight.
I picked at the edge, peeled the perforated plastic,
and a tiny smile of satisfaction greeted the 
victory of a perfect cellophane strip pinched between my thin fingers.
An unspoken game I’d play.
Never kept score.
Maybe I should have?

I’d eye the white filters and select 
the lucky one (always random)
flip it upside down and save it for last. 
Then choose another, inhale the tobbacco’s sweet scent,
And with careful concern and sudden urgency,
place it gently between my lips:
Never seductive like in the movies,
or as an ex-lover once described me
(His intensity and desire still resonate).

I reached in my front pocket for my zippo
–finger-lifted from a secondhand shop–
The distinct “click” opened to a bright orange flame
And I cupped my hands around it,
to keep it safe,
to cradle the fire as if my survival depended on it
(and it did)

The paper ignited and held the heat,
A tiny act of self-immolation to keep 
this sacred ritual alive
as I selfishly killed my lungs with a slow burn,
and I enjoyed it,
The way I imagine that ex-lover would.