Oh, cigarette. We hooked up again recently.
Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not meant to be. You found me in Germany, first, and then we went to France. You even followed me to the States, loyalty beyond belief. Then we broke up but only for a while. You just found yourself in my hands again, packed away in a neat little case. I opened up the box and there you were: neat, clean and happy to see me. I lovingly removed your foil blanket and plucked you from the ranks. You kissed the flame of my lighter, and then we talked awhile, carrying on a light conversation with much sighing and breathing. I extended my arm in front of me to properly examine you.
But wait. You had changed. Incorrigibly. No longer did you appear sleek and elegant. No. Instead, I cringed at the mere stubby sight of you. You had grown so tinged with taint, I could no longer hold you in my hand.
And so down you went, fluttering into a November puddle of the city. As I watched you drown I felt it was right that it be so. We were over.
Until . . .
We met again.
I thought I got rid of you.
But somehow, just somehow, you managed to weasel your way into my hand at can’t-remember the day the time we met again. Suddenly I was caught up in the moment and we chatted briefly. I batted my eyes a little, and you nodded demurely.
Though when you’d gone I felt awful. I felt contaminated. I realized that this was due to my guilt. Fuck guilt, right? Let’s just say I realized, finally, the extent of your awfulness, your absolute filth.
Now, having received the right amount of distance, I see things with more perspective. I acknowledge that we had a great love while it lasted. Fun was had by all. I’m glad it happened. It was my fate, my destiny (if you will). This is what I have decided, and that is where I’ll leave it.
So this is the final goodbye . . . until next time.